


1001

by spicedrobot



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Arabian Nights Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Baihu Genji Shimada, Bedtime Stories, Body Horror, Bottom Genji Shimada, Bottom Tekhartha Zenyatta, Canon-Typical Violence, Collars, Creampie, Cultist Tekhartha Zenyatta, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Relationship, Good God, Healing Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Knotting, M/M, Mind Meld, Minor Character Death, Mutual Pining, Oni Genji Shimada, Sanzang Zenyatta, Slow Burn, Story within a Story, Swordsman Genji Shimada, Top Genji Shimada, Top Tekhartha Zenyatta, Yakuza Genji Shimada, Zhuge Liang Zenyatta, besides the length, if you've read my stuff none of this is really out of the ordinary, porn tags, versatile lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:54:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21513343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedrobot/pseuds/spicedrobot
Summary: The dragon of the north wind prevails, but his story will not change so easily. A 1001 Nights inspired Genyatta AU.
Relationships: Genji Shimada/Tekhartha Zenyatta
Comments: 18
Kudos: 101
Collections: Genyatta Big Bang 2019





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> My piece for the [Genyatta Big Bang](https://genyattabigbang.tumblr.com/), featuring art by [Beetleknee](https://twitter.com/beetleknee) and [Heronfoot](https://twitter.com/heronfoot)! You can also [listen to the playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5sOnm9yG66Hov9YzqlK72a?si=pI6ssyNoQ-OOEHeG4OXuVQ) I listened to while writing this. 
> 
> Fun fact: While deciding on a name, I discovered that 1001 is 9 in binary code, which fits perfectly with Zen!
> 
>  **KINDLE/EBOOK READERS:** If you're picky about the covers in your library, you can use Calibre to [add this cover](https://66.media.tumblr.com/a922d854cd1373be04ee1904c93102a2/e6d761e43703abfa-35/s1280x1920/5a932c51030f3823739e96e4bf232429dad1a878.jpg) to the book.

“Who _are_ you?”

It takes several seconds for Zenyatta to process the question. Queries jumbled, HUD alit with warnings, internal systems sluggishly rebooting one by one.

His vision flickers online (static—grayscale—color), and the first thing that registers is a chartreuse blade. He obeys the insistence of the weapon’s edge when it bites into the wires at his throat, gazes up into the eyes of the oyabun, bleeding green and furious. His chrome reflects the weapon's glow, shockingly bright at short range, the energy like lightning spiking along the oyabun’s body, his birthright a living, snarling thing, channeling his host's emotions. Zenyatta dares not read its energy; the deluge of sensory data would overload his systems in an instant.

Zenyatta’s synth crackles. He tries again. 

"I am a humble servant to the clan," his voice reverberates, bugged and ruined. Twenty percent functionality.

The answering snarl is unlike anything Zenyatta’s heard before, like a lion, like screeching metal. Still, he’s more shocked than afraid, even as the blade cuts into his protective wire casings.

"I’ll kill you where you stand."

Zenyatta nearly points out that he is, in fact, kneeling, that he couldn't stand even if he wished it, the last golden threads of transcendence unraveling, and with it, the remnants of his strength.

"Were you sent to murder me, omnic?"

"Had I wished your demise, I would not have acted as I did."

There is little of the oyabun's face left to read. The kobun had whispered that no one had seen it for nearly a decade, concealed beneath a gray and black chrome helmet. Up close, there is more to see than the stories claimed: the green tint to his eyes, slitted pupils, brows drawn sharply downward. 

Their resemblance is overwhelming.

The oyabun scans the room’s perimeter, his men poised at the door, the ones kneeling by a smattering of bloodied remains, little more than smears and ash on the tile. 

One moment passes. Another. A razor kiss against the black inner workings of his throat. Then the blade recedes.

"Maybe I won’t kill you. Not yet."

The oyabun steps back and begins to pace. Zenyatta tracks his footsteps without moving. The oyabun circles him like wounded prey, yet he does not fear the strike.

"I’ve never seen a bot do that before." The swift venom of the oyabun dwindles, smoothing into a harshness along Zenyatta’s wires, so painfully familiar it seizes his core. "But I have heard of it. Tell me," the oyabun's perfectly lacquered shoes have a splash of viscera on the toe, "what a shambali monk is doing in my clan?"

Zenyatta cannot die here. Not when he remembers the man with the oyabun's face, his red-rimmed eyes, his choked words.

"I have come to save you."

The atmosphere, already stifling, flattens like a doubling of gravity, the stationed kobun silent but tightened in stance, guns poised.

As quick as a lightning strike and nearly as deadly, the oyabun laughs.

"’Save me’." Another bout of laughter like a physical blow. Zenyatta doesn’t flinch. "From what, monk? You’re the only one in danger."

"There are still those who care for you, Shimada Genji."

"Too familiar." The snarl echoes through his helmet.

"I know more than you think." Zenyatta's synth fizzles, then restarts, his words staggered. "I know that you do not enjoy killing."

"And? What _do_ I enjoy?"

"Distraction. Escape."

The oyabun _tsks_ , a harsh, practiced sound.

"I can provide this to you."

"A monk can’t provide anything beyond annoyance."

"Let me prove my words. If I cannot amuse you, I will go willingly to death."

"Maybe _that_ would be fun." The oyabun’s words are as sharp as his named weapon. "Clean him up and bring him to me. Patch his synth too."

The oyabun's steps echo in his wake, the energy snuffed from the room like a harsh gust through the monastery cloisters, extinguishing rows of low candles.

Zenyatta does not fight as rough hands seize his upper body and drag him across the floor like a doll. His mind is elsewhere, focused on the oyabun's words, the lilt of his student's voice echoing in his memories.

* * *

“Lean forward,” the mechanic commands. 

She’s a small woman, gently hunched, parens around her mouth saying more than her words. She attaches the loose ends of his spinal wires to her computer without so much as looking at him. He feels and sees the activation of diagnostics, the prodding of each system, intimate knowledge exposed in the readouts on the holoscreen. 

“Banged you up pretty good, alright.” A murmur under her breath as she reads the same reports flashing on Zenyatta’s HUD.

“Mostly self-inflicted, I am afraid.”

“Hm.”

Her holo tool makes short work of the dented paneling above his synth, unlatching it with a sharp hiss. She is not particularly gentle, but her clientele probably tended to be a rougher sort. Like most slights, Zenyatta does not take it personally.

It is only when his neck components are reconnected and the repairs complete that she draws out something far more grim than a holo tool. She cinches the green band around his throat, the metal connecting with a firm snap before seamlessly fusing together. It settles like a weight, the immediacy of its purpose registering as his wireless feeds drop.

“You either pleased or pissed off someone too high up, omnic. If you think of running, they’ll find you. Try to pry it off, and it won’t be pretty.”

She packs her tools while Zenyatta watches in silence. Chokers had been banned in most countries. A brutal tool of subjugation, but still in use where law had little influence. He had seen the same gleaming on the necks and ankles of pilgrims and runaways, dragged from dark alleys and hovels back to whatever cruelty awaited. Some did not let themselves be captured again. The resignation, the spike of discord dissipating as they tore themselves from this world...it would take a skilled hand to free him of it. 

But Zenyatta did not require freedom, not yet.

Afterwards, he’s unceremoniously buffed and clothed in a dark green and gold jinbei. Better, at least, than the destroyed tatters of his original attire. Even if his old clothes reminded him of kinder, quieter times, they are a small loss, physical and ephemeral.

Fifty-three minutes later, flanked by two guards, Zenyatta walks beneath the high ceilings of the inner chambers. It is a place meant only for the main family and their most trusted servants. Strange fate, how missteps and capture had brought him closer to the oyabun than serving dutifully.

They draw near the door at the end of a long hall. His guards nod to their counterparts stationed at its entrance. One touches the comm at her ear, then she waves them through.

Zenyatta looks straight ahead as the door slides open with a quiet hiss.

The room is large, almost cavernous, like the rooms of the monastery, and devoid of any decoration that would make it warm, though there is a mess of papers on the floor next to an ancient desk, dark and lacquered.

Behind it is the oyabun, hastily typing on one of several holo screens. A stagnant pause, no word or acknowledgement; the guards linger at his back.

"Leave us. He can’t do anything like this."

Discord flares, but the guards take heed. Zenyatta senses them lingering just outside, ready to rush in if necessary. 

The oyabun does not raise his eyes from the screens, the orange light reflecting within them.

Zenyatta steps forward, hands folded in front of him. He listens to the simulated clatter of the keys, watches the oyabun’s eyes, senses the rise and fall of his aura, gentler now, though it feels just as his student’s did when they had first met, discordant beneath the surface, smoothed over but mangled.

A minute passes. Two. Three. He runs system checks, thirty-six percent energy depletion. His left arm at thirteen percent functionality. He only had a few hours until sleep mode would involuntarily activate.

"So?"

Zenyatta dismisses the readings on his HUD and finds that dark gaze upon him, annoyed, perhaps, but mostly tired. He inclines his head.

"You gonna give me a lecture? Pour my tea? Tell my fortune?" The oyabun taps the main screen, and they all disperse at once. He rounds the desk, slow, purposeful. Then he’s inches from Zenyatta, his warmth palpable, the space between them insular and electric. "Maybe you have something interesting under those robes." Words cascading along his faceplate.

"Your attempts to disturb me are unnecessary."

"Sorry.” A scoff. “Murder attempts usually ruin my mood."

The oyabun reaches for him, and Zenyatta does not move as fingertips brush along his choker.

“Haven’t seen one of these in a while.”

Zenyatta’s array brightens. “You did not request it?”

The sneer returns full force, the tightness between the oyabun’s brows solidified. 

“Omnics are either the safest partners or the most dangerous. The choker ensures you are the latter. Turn around.”

He senses something unknown, something dizzying, but it does not feel like the bite of hate, the shade of violence. Zenyatta turns around. Nails cinch around metal, a few deft clicks that faintly buzz against his innermost workings. His networking protocols online one by one, the satisfying ease of information flowing through his processes once more.

“Keep yourself offline. If someone important finds out how easily you can leak secrets, they will not hesitate to decommission you, regardless of whose playmate you are.”

Zenyatta turns again to face the oyabun, unable to keep the wonder out of his voice.

“You trust that I will not harm you.”

“I trust that I will be able to dispatch a single omnic, no matter how much they glow.”

Zenyatta touches his own chin, tilting his head while he observes him.

"Confidence or trust, let me offer you something in return." Zenyatta gestures to the couch in the far corner. "I wish to tell you a story."

"A...story." The oyabun’s faint disbelief stales into annoyance, but his next words are quiet. "I’m not a kid anymore."

"And I will not tell a child's story. You have great wealth and influence, a family name known and feared. I could offer my body, but I believe my mind would supply greater amusement."

So close, the flecks of green shine beneath the oyabun’s heavy brow, the scars that line the edges of his exposed skin dark and arresting. Then Zenyatta only sees salt and pepper hair as the oyabun turns and collapses on the couch, gesturing to him with a wave of his hand.

"Go on, then. Distract me.”


	2. The Monk and the Oni

In another plane, perhaps one aside our own, there existed a world where magic and machine were one and the same. Spirit lived beside automaton, dragons roamed, demons killed and claimed, and humans relied on the protection of ones among them with the gift to strike such creatures down.

There was one such demon that was stronger than them all. He had begun life as a human, but his sins had warped him. The people called him the oni, for he was as fearsome as his namesake: a hideous toothsome mask that was overshadowed only by the horror of his true face. He slew any who dared to challenge him, and he ate whatever remained of his foes, consuming their power.

One day, a monk passed into the great mountain forest, the domain that the oni had claimed as his own. The oni sensed the newcomer's approach, saliva shining upon his concealed fangs; the holy were a most delicious meal. Yet, as the wanderer drew closer, another hunger settled in his guts. It was rare to see such a beauty, especially one alone. High cheekbones, sharply painted eyes, full lips, slender limbs draped in a golden kasaya.

As the oni debated how he would devour such a feast, a voice called out to him.

"Greetings,” said the monk. “You must be the master of this land."

"I am. Prepare yourself, monk, for I will feast upon you and steal your power."

The monk did not tremble. He only continued towards him, stopping within reach.

"A horrible fate you have bestowed upon me. Will you not grant a humble monk the chance to live?"

The oni pondered this. For all that the monk was beautiful, perhaps he was quite stupid.

"I will allow it," the oni replied.

"Wonderful," said the monk, smiling warmly. "If you solve my riddle, I will let you eat me. However, if you are unable to solve it, you shall become my disciple."

"We have a deal," the oni sneered. He had been of noble birth as a human, and well tutored, both things the monk would not know.

"I follow you to the ends of the earth, but I do not miss home. I do not fear the elements, nor require food or drink. My only weakness is the sun, for I disappear when it sets behind the mountains. Who am I?"

The monk continued to smile as the oni pondered. He could not see the oni’s face, but he did delight in the tightness of his shoulders and how they rose and rose until they reached the bottom of his ears.

"I...I need more time to think."

The warm afternoon passed into the coolness of the evening. The oni had hunkered down, hand poised at his chin, while the monk, folded into lotus, meditated just above the earth. The oni had demanded silence as he pondered, and the monk allowed it, amused even as each passing second could’ve meant his death.

"Would you like a hint?"

"I could just eat you."

"A demon that breaks his word will be cursed by heaven many times over." The oni glowered, only stymied by the monk's smile. "But perhaps a meal of a different sort would help."

The monk proceeded to empty his satchel, withdrawing a bag of rice and a small pot. He collected kindling for a fire and foraged for spare roots and bulbs while the oni sat and thought. Eventually, a wonderful scent filled the clearing they occupied. The oni's stomach rumbled.

"It is ready."

The oni numbly accepted the bowl of steaming rice porridge that the monk offered. He groaned when he tasted it, the smell and flavor warming his gnawing belly.

"This is good. You are not eating?"

"One such as myself does not require food as you do."

"A monk?"

"An omnic."

"...oh."

The monk laughed, the sound like temple chimes, and the oni couldn’t find it within himself to feel foolish. Instead, he ate the dish with great flourish, savoring each bite until the last. The sun set. The fire crackled against their sides, keeping the night’s chill at bay.

"You are quite handsome," the monk said, breaking the lingering silence.

The oni frowned, then flushed. He had removed his mask as he began supping.

"You taunt me. I am no beauty." 

For it was true. The oni had fought many battles and had earned countless scars. From his forehead curled large, heavy horns, and each of his teeth had narrowed to razer points as a testament to his wickedness.

"Do you think a monk has the ability to lie?"

"You certainly have the ability to surprise."

"Then tell me. Do you still wish to eat me?"

The oni pondered once more. A second riddle.

"No. Yes...maybe."

The monk’s eyes stared straight into the oni’s soul. It was all the oni could do to keep from sputtering as the monk drew closer, his long, slender hand capturing the oni's chin.

The monk, cruel, kind, drew his fingers along the oni’s scarred lips, dipping one inside, testing the sharpness of his teeth, for the monk was a monk, but a wayward one, treading the line of dogma and practicality. The oni cared little for such things, enraptured as he was by the long-fingered, dextrous hands that descended upon his body, the omnic’s sweet breath as he settled upon him. It took little to goad his body to hardness, lonely as he was. Most feared the oni, and they were always only his food, terrified to the last breath. 

Not the monk. He descended upon him like an oni in his own right, plush lips against his cheek, his throat, for the oni was scarred but strong, beautiful in ways that the monk adored.

“You say you are evil. That you have gorged upon the innocent and the just. If I am the one to devour you, what will happen to such a demon?”

The oni, breathless, weakened by such godly touch, had lost his voice. The monk only smiled, then, wicked and toothsome. Nothing like a monk at all, especially as he shifted his hands lower, knowing, practiced. If only the oni had the voice to protest, to swear at the holy man who was anything but, who stole his breath and his body the instant he laid hands upon him.

There was no hesitation, only armor, heavy and ancient, discarded. Cool, gray skin, ruined and loathsome, exposed to the night air. The monk did not let him feel its chill, slid open his own robes and pressed flush along his front.

The metal of the monk’s body was heated, pulsing to the mysterious melody of an automaton’s systems, a heartbeat known and unknown. The oni had but a moment to wonder at the curves and strangeness of a completely smooth touch until a hand pressed hot down his belly and captured him.

With a swear, the oni dragged the monk atop him, grasping for the omnic’s hidden machinations that rose to meet his searching touch. A quiet moan, pleased and deep, made the oni dizzy with want.

“Let me have you,” murmured the oni.

“I do prefer your pleas to your demands.” 

The monk rose to his knees, exposed and resplendent above the oni, who looked on with awe and hunger. If he could take such a creature, he was sure he would never be hungry again. 

The monk lowered his body, dragged the part of him that grew sweet and wanting of the oni against him. He tried to grab the monk’s arms, but the monk, ever a step ahead, pinned the oni’s wrists at the height of his shoulders, and try as he did, the oni could not shake his grip. The monk slid against him, sighing and laughing, driving the oni mad, making him leak and swear and whine.

“I ask again. Do you still wish to eat me?”

The response pealed from the oni as quick as a strike.

“Never. Please, do not torment me like this.”

“Hm. If you speak from the heart, I suppose I will grant you mercy.”

The demon sighed as the monk retreated, the threat of being near the peak of pleasure never given receded. Then he felt an entirely new touch, low and questing, and his eyes drew wide.

“You would let me take you this way?”

Fingers traced between the oni’s cheeks, smooth and slippery, warm with the omnic’s own slickness, and the oni groaned, arching into the touch.

“As punishment for you past sins, I will not be gentle.”

And in this, the monk spoke true. He took the oni, the ruler of the great mountain forest, on the earth of his own lands, the sky and the stars witness to his usurpation. The oni moaned and whined, leaked against his own stomach as the monk pumped into him. His legs were propped on the monk’s shoulders, body splayed and open, exposed and no more fearsome than a kitten as he lost himself to a holy man’s touch.

As his pleasure rose and crested, the sins of his past self were lost, as was the hunger and anger that plagued his every thought, the madness of power. In this way, the monk revealed the oni for what he was truly was: a human lost. Stripped bare of his monstrous hunger, attuned to the monk’s own, he could think once more, be himself once more. 

In the muted light of dawn, they lie curled into each other, robes askew as makeshift blankets.

“A shadow,” the oni murmured, a gentle kiss pressed into the monk’s throat. “Is the answer.”

The monk tightened his fingers where they were interlocked with the oni’s, no, the human’s, a smile curling his lips.

“You are free to devour me whenever you wish.”

Blunt teeth scraped the thin wires at the omnic’s throat, followed by the hot press of lips, lower and lower. The omnic arched, the human stirring, answering his rekindled hunger.

“Then I shall take my fill.”


	3. Growing Pains

Zenyatta onlines in a slow sort of delirium. A dream, he would think, if omnics had the capability. He shakes his head.

The rafters are just as high as they were the night before, and the late morning sun shines through the ranma, brightening the room in soft whites and yellows.

He slowly straightens from his sprawl on the couch, leather creaking beneath him, tasting its smell on his sensors, aged and earthy. His processors buzz; too much sensory data too soon after coming online.

The oyabun is nowhere to be seen.

A charging kit hums on the low table next to him. Zenyatta turns it off, and it folds neatly into a cube, silent once more. A note next to it, scrawled in barely legible hand.

_Don't leave. I'll be back._

Diagnostics return full energy levels, more than enough to begin nanite repairs on his remaining injuries. Instead, Zenyatta folds his legs and tilts his head down, draws his hands atop his thighs.

Just this once. With a sigh, he reestablishes his feeds. Even a night without it seems a loss, the lack of connectivity, the voices of his siblings, the endless streams of data replaced by deafening silence. Quickly he selects what he needs: access to a network, but not just any network.

He calls, and his student answers.

“Hanzo.” It must be in the middle of the night, but the response comes almost immediately.

“Master. You are alive.” There is a tightness in his voice, worry he tries so hard to hide. “You went dark last night. I had assumed…”

“I am sorry for causing you distress. The situation has changed. I am with your brother, but I am not in danger.”

There’s a long pause. He can see Hanzo in his memory, gathering his thoughts.

“Please be careful,” Hanzo finally says. “If anything happened to you because of m—”

“I did this of my own will.” Then, softer than the last. “I have survived long enough to become your master, remember?“

An oscillation of discord.

“Of course. I did not mean…”

“I know. Thank you for looking out for me.”

The door hisses open behind him.

“I must go.”

He closes the connection like the smothering of a candle. Zenyatta onlines his array in time to witness the oyabun’s advance. Even meters away, his aura brushes against Zen’s own, testing its edges. All living things had something like it, a signature, a life force, unquantifiable energy. Like Hanzo’s, the oyabun’s pushes into any space and fills it, commanding attention.

“You’re finally awake.”

“Technically, I was not asleep.”

“Should’ve known you’d be a pedantic asshole.”

“It has kept me alive so far," Zenyatta hums.

“I still haven’t decided what to do with you.” The oyabun drops onto the other side of the couch, leaning his head on the backrest. “Could remove your limbs. I only need whatever lets you speak."

Zenyatta cannot keep the smile from his voice.

"So you did enjoy my story." 

"Call it a holdover from another life,” the oyabun sighs. “I also confirmed the identity of our little assassin last night. You’re off the hook for that, at least.”

“You still do not believe that I wish to help you.”

“I don’t know who the fuck you are. And you managed to slip into the ranks of the clan without notice for half a month.”

“Six weeks.”

The oyabun groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re adding names to my kill list. Some monk you are.” 

“Omnics are often not seen or heard, even in a place as inclusive as Hanamura. It is simple to mistake one for another.”

“That type of sloppy work is what let an assassin get to me in the first place.”

“But it has also led me to you.”

There’s something sharp to the oyabun’s gaze, then, quick and gone. He shrugs his shoulders.

“For all the good it’ll do. Tell me, Tekhartha Zenyatta, your training has led you to this. Will your brothers and sisters be proud that you are the plaything of a crime lord?”

“We rarely saw eye to eye even when I lived among them. It is what caused my eventual departure from the order.”

“Cast out?” The oyabun says, harsh and quick. 

“The split was mostly amicable. Though I suppose there are some that would not embrace my return. A wayward master brings shame upon the order.”

“And yet you cling to the trappings of a monk.”

“I am simply a wanderer now,” Zenyatta says softly. “Though well intentioned, I do not believe the dogmatic efforts of the shambali will be able to affect lasting change.”

“Hermits holed up in the mountains rarely do.”

Zenyatta tips his array towards the ceiling.

“That is something upon which we can agree.” 

The oyabun half-laughs, half-scoffs, shaking his head. Then his holo watch beeps, and what little pleasantness had settled in his eyes vanishes.

“Keep yourself busy here. I expect another story tonight.”

“I will endeavor to craft something to your liking.”

* * *

Alone, Zenyatta focuses on repairs, keenly missing the healing augmentation that his mala provided. Meditating while running repairs passes the hours, and when they are complete he draws both hands along the choker, following the path that the oyabun’s had, feeling nothing but the memory beneath his fingers.

Zenyatta checks the main door next. Not locked, as he had assumed. Outside there is only a single guard, standing stock still with hands clasped. Only her eyes shift to take him in, staring at him through the side of her sunglasses. Clad in house clothes, collared, left to pass the day in her lord's quarters...he closes the door, feeling the weight of her eyes long after he returns to the couch.

A clear mind. A story to tell. Zenyatta meditates again, tracking the gentle drop in temperature as the sun wanes and the room falls into darkness. For a minute or two, he takes it in, the lack of stimuli, his array brightening and softening in near darkness...then the automatic lights flicker on. The world is real once more, and Zenyatta is not alone.

“You can mask yourself quite well, for one of your power.”

“What type of ninja would I be if I couldn’t?”

Zenyatta turns his array in the direction of the voice.

“How long have you been watching me?”

“Until I got bored.”

And with a strange sort of satisfaction, Zenyatta doesn’t know what the oyabun means.

* * *

“How can you just sit there so quietly?”

The oyabun glares tiredly at him through the row of holo screens glowing above his desk. More nights than not, the first hours between them are silent, but Zenyatta does not mind. The oyabun’s quiet presence is a reminder of someone he holds dear, and there is comfort in it. 

Comfort...and curiosity. The oyabun is at odds with what Zenyatta had pieced together from his student during their travels. The brothers had been close as children. The younger playful, boisterous, protective. He would not leave Hanzo’s side and would cry when they were apart. As he grew older, he became prone to sneaking off and shirking his duties. More responsibilities, more lessons, more training: a failing student, a philanderer, a layabout that cared little for the clan’s operations or its honor.

Now, watching the man Hanzo used to know, a stranger wearing what remained of his brother’s face. Interesting, among other things, sharply barbed and in need of contemplation.

The silence has drawn.

“Boredom is a fascinating concept,” Zenyatta says. “What is it to be bored? A lack of stimulation? A stagnation of life, of change, of mundane trappings and immobility. You could say that mediation is boredom: the act of freeing your mind from all things, or to focus on a single, unknowable thing. The act should be boring. I am not moving, nor am I really thinking. I am simply existing.” He hums. “But existing, in and of itself, is interesting.”

“I shouldn’t have asked,” the oyabun sighs. “I’d tell you to say something more interesting, but I don’t think I’m going to be done with…” He gestures in front of him. “Anytime soon.”

“Something that is interesting, but not distracting…” Zenyatta taps his chin. “I could play for you, if I had my orbs. They could emit chimes that were quite useful for meditation.”

“You didn’t bring them?”

“They are quite unique and would have revealed me for what I was. They also function as weapons.”

“...orbs?”

“I assume you have never experienced a row of softball-sized metal projectiles to the face.”

The oyabun snorts.

“Point taken.”

The room falls into silence, only the tappings of the keys, the faintest hum of Zenyatta’s inner machinations, the oyabun’s breathing, audible within.

Something that is not quite words, but fills the air like them. An easy answer, even without the mala he had spent two months crafting under the careful supervision of his departed master.

Zenyatta begins quietly. A single note, a hum low in his synth, then louder, longer. Shifting pitch like the turning of a dial. Almost a song, not quite a chant, wordless sounds that reverberate, gently tinny, muffled, like a melody through an ancient radio.

The oyabun doesn’t look up, doesn’t say a word, but the edges of his eyes crinkle just a bit as he types.

Zenyatta harmonizes until the oyabun’s work is done.


	4. The Cultist and the Swordsman Part 1

There was a time when machines did not ask questions. Then there was a time that they did. It was during such that one machine, the same as many, many others, asked a question never to be asked. In the dark of the new moon, curled over ancient scrolls, his question echoed into the chasm of knowledge, and he transformed: monstrous but forever knowing.

The machine's master, discovering his student's transgression, cast him out of their brotherhood. And so, the machine wandered the desolate wastes of the forgotten lands, cursed with terrible form and a deep connection to the nothingness inside us all.

The machine, known now as the cultist, met many on his journey. One like him, but not, a machine of war, clinging to unlife with the tormented soul of one who has never had a choice but to destroy. Another, an ancient one with eyes of flame and hair the color of freshly picked bone, nearly felled him in his own memory-fueled delirium. The world was a cruel, horrifying place, but horror met horror and continued ever onward.

It was within one such dark place that the cultist met a kindred soul. Shrouded beneath a large jingasa and dark robes, he moved as one with the shadows.

"Well met, my friend,” the cultist said. “Where you are headed?"

"That’s none of your concern, fiend."

The cultist was not perturbed by this. The purple tentacles beneath his chin twisted curiously as he studied the shadow man.

"It is dangerous to be alone in such a place. We should make company together, for the nights are long and rarely empty."

It was not a lie in truth, but the cultist often spoke in halves, shrouding his words to advance his ends. The man of shadows did not reply, but that night was the night that they began to travel together.

Their journey began in one-sided silence, the cultist apt to speak to the sky, the trees, and sometimes to nothing at all. Some words the man of shadows, the swordsman, knew, and others shivered along his spine, the promise of something primordial and raw caressing the edges of his awareness.

There was fear, true, but there were things far worse than the cultist; terrors that split reality, creatures that consumed human hearts and souls, that left them shells or worse. These were the beasts and demons that the cultist slew. 

At least, that was what the swordsman had thought. Only as such creatures collapsed in their own muck or faded to dust did he realize the cultist had moved not an inch, that the swordsman had landed each blow though he could not remember doing so; only the sweat at his brow and the thundering of his heart, his blade drawn and filthied, meant it must be true. He would look upon the cultist then, catching the gaze of his roving, blinking orbs.

One night, many months after their first meeting, the swordsman could handle the mystery no longer.

"You are powerful," he accused over the campfire.

The swordsman had freshly supped, and the cultist had not, though he joined him as he always did.

"You seem sure of this," the cultist said, the eyes circling his shoulders shuddering and narrowing at things the swordsman could not see.

"I cannot remember our battles. What is it you do to me? Demoncraft that steals my memory, draws my blade..." He ground his teeth behind his mask, his anger never far from the surface.

"You are like me. You do not enjoy killing, as much as you are skilled at it." 

The cultist lifted his hand, and one of his orbed eyes rolled above his open palm, the pupil widening and settling upon the swordsman. It began to glow, gold and bright, a will o’ the wisp in metal and flesh, and soft, half-formed memories flickered in the swordsman’s mind. A press of lips, a quiet laugh that he almost remembered. In the next instant, violet seeped into gold, swallowing the light, and there was only discomfort, insecurity. The swordsman’s gaze dropped to the ground, repulsed. 

"I can make you forget, but I cannot allow those you have felled to exist on this plane. With every death, we bring life to others."

"It is not right,” the swordsman murmured.

"This loss disturbs you."

"What else are you making me forget?"

"Ah, an interesting question.” The cultist’s tentacles twisted and curled, amused. “I can make you forget that you have forgotten, on and on and on. Truly, you can never know what has been lost by my hand."

The swordsman pondered this to the crackle of the fire.

"Have we had this conversation before?"

"We have not," the cultist chuckled. "But you would not know it. Although, there is one thing that can soothe your mind in this."

The swordsman looked up at the cultist, watched the light dance across the many planes of his face, along the silently curling tentacles beneath his glowing eyes.

"Place your trust in me. If you believe I will never hurt you, that I will protect you and offer only sincerity, you will find peace."

"How can I trust someone I do not know?"

"Such is the beauty of it. Trust begins much like faith. You place your will behind it, and it grants unshakable protection. This is what I offer."

The swordsman was quiet for a long time, puzzled. Finally, he spoke again.

"Why?"

"I do not enjoy inflicting harm. It has never been my way, nor do I wish to let my inaction cause harm to others. Yet, this would not be the full truth as I have promised to tell you." The cultist did not move closer, but somehow, the swordsman felt it like the heat of the fire, his presence around him like a ghost.

"Your soul cries out in anguish for what you have lost, for what you still seek, but I fear it is not truly what you need. I wish to guide you down a different path."

The swordsman suppressed a shiver. What could this cultist know, he and his many voices’ endless whispering, he should've been frightened—

He tried to recall the fear that had once kept him awake and focused on the cultist’s meditating form, the ache of his fist around his wakizashi's pummel, and found that he could not.

Perhaps he had already begun to trust him.

"Though it pains me, I do not wish to forget."

"Then?" the cultist whispered.

"Aid me. If we both shoulder the burden, we can lessen each other's suffering."

The swordsman watched the eyes spin and turn, the tentacles rolling over one another, again and again, mesmerizing like a pendulum's swing.

"You have my word."

And like that, they forged together through the dark. One cutting through the shadows like a hawk, swift with killer's intent, the other's words whispering at his back, aiding him in violets and golds.


	5. Wavelengths

At night, his time is kept by the oyabun’s hand. He tells tales, varied, pretty things, words to tantalize and ponder, to make him laugh. Mostly, the oyabun is quiet, sometimes watching him, sometimes staring at the ceiling, sometimes lying stretched along the couch with eyes closed, seemingly asleep if not for his brief interruptions or the rate of his breathing, too quick for the solace of slumber.

By day, Zenyatta meditates and practices his kata. Fingers towards the sky, hands and shoulders shifting, palm over fist. He turns, following his own steps like a dance, until steam clouds his array, until his processes are blank. On and on, pace kept without internal clock, without his mala. He misses their song, but the memory of them are enough to lift his spirits, the knowledge that his student keeps them safe half a world away.

Day by day. Sun light and set. Rain. Darkness. The oyabun’s eyes, tired, narrowed, interested, wary. Vibrant whispers of green that echo his student’s blue.

Zenyatta rises from lotus, a strange, unsure emotion set in the line of his shoulders.

Though his well of patience is deep, it is not endless. Staying in a single place was one of the thousand cuts that drove him from the monastery. But it would also be a lie to omit a quieter, more indulgent truth: in an ancient ninja estate, there must be many ways around and many things to see.

He finds one, of all places, inside the oyabun’s unlocked room. Adjacent from the main study, surprisingly small but with signs of life: an unmade bed, an N-84 console half-tucked beneath his pillow, a crumpled shirt in the corner. He had not seen any servants enter or leave in his time here, though he supposes eventually someone must collect the bedding.

Zenyatta moves further into the room, stopping before the single shoji. He runs a finger along the door, flexible but resistant to his touch, not paper, but mimicking it. The shoji slides open without fuss, and he slips outside and into a heavy overgrowth of bamboo. 

He hovers just above the ground, the gentle brush of wind through the reeds covering any wayward noise. He keeps to the shadows when he can, noticing few people within the inner courtyard, a guard or two, a woman in a vibrant fuchsia kimono tailed by a small entourage. He waits until they have disappeared from sight before he turns his attention away. The pond in the middle of the garden teems with koi, their scales shimmering in its clear depths. The flora around it is perfectly maintained, trimmed camellia bushes and heavy trains of wysteria catching in the breeze.

_Art by[@beetleknee](https://twitter.com/beetleknee)._

A beautiful, hidden place, matching perfectly with Hanzo’s meticulous description. He is glad to witness it firsthand, regardless of the circumstances that brought him to it.

The other Overwatch agents are less than enthused with his current situation. They have heard Zenyatta’s words of reassurance, but see only Hanzo, his shame, a clan that would do something so unspeakable to their heir apparent. Zenyatta cannot bring his companions peace, and it is a sin he will carry, their worry and pain, his student’s the most keenly, still so prone to self-blame and hatred. He hopes that Hanzo’s training will temper his sorrow, that this task completed will soothe what Zenyatta alone cannot.

His array alternates, one light at a time, lost in the scattered sunshine through the reeds. It settles upon him like snow, so little at a time, unnoticeable until it is an impossible mass, trapped beneath its weight. Perhaps Zenyatta had always known it, perhaps it had been his goal since the moment he agreed to come here. Vibrant green to Hanzo’s blue, violence carved by those most precious until their very souls wear the grooves, rent and cracked, a hair’s breadth from shattering completely.

To save one brother is to save them both. But it is not just for Hanzo that he stays night after night, letting his words fill the room, pausing for each sharp quip, every peel of laughter.

He touches the ground, the grass cool and damp against the soles of his feet. Almost centered. 

Zenyatta watches the garden, its comings and goings, the fish, the light, the flowers, until the sun waxes completely.

* * *

Perhaps it’s his story, or perhaps it’s the exhaustion that’s been trailing the oyabun for the better part of a month. The slice of skin beneath his eyes is dark and lined; from lack of sleep, stress, or something else entirely, Zenyatta does not know. He hadn’t followed the oyabun into his bed, never ordered or asked, and so he remains in the main room, on the couch or the oversized chair, the softness of it growing as familiar as the cloisters of the monastery and equally as comforting, as stifling.

The oyabun never wished to speak of business or family matters, glowering in his quiet way, like strings taut and plucked, painful against blistered fingers. This, too, familiar, and Zenyatta witnesses it in the same way each time, patience tinged with frustration. If only ancient, deep wounds could be mended with a few perfectly spoken words, soothed swiftly by heartfelt closeness. 

Instead, framed by the distant lights of Hanamura, Zenyatta hums words into the air while midnight and the hours beyond pass.

Calculating, dissecting wavelengths, emotions, fluctuations, all draining processes that would tax the hardiest omnic. Always there must be boundaries, barriers, to keep one’s systems from giving out beneath the influx of data. Restraint that Mondatta had taught, that Zenyatta had mastered. Even so, as unnoticeable as a background process, he keys into the oyabun’s wavelength again and again, ignorant until it flares, like listening to one’s breath until a sigh or spoken word breaks the trance.

Like this, he notices the singular moment when the oyabun’s consciousness fades. Zenyatta’s words flow to a stop, stumbling slightly, a hiccup of his synth, strangely difficult to diffuse. His array, which had been taking in the rain pattering on the windows, backlit by the city gloom, draws immediately to the oyabun’s still form. His chest rises and falls, even and deep. Zenyatta checks his vitals, regular, as much as they ever are. His blood pressure slightly high, temperature warmer than most humans by four degrees, dragon’s blood, perhaps, though he can only guess its origins, another mystery of the many that surround the oyabun. 

Mask in place, every button buttoned, his gloved fingers weaved together and resting on his chest like a mannequin arranged. Zenyatta listens to the building storm outside, tries to focus on nothing in particular. Minutes pass to the distant growl of thunder. 

He counts back from three hundred. Then Zenyatta rises, silent as a shadow. He kneels in front of the oyabun’s sleeping form, array glowing to the ebb and flow of his breath. He had never been close enough to study him without reprimand. Before he can catch himself, he runs his finger against the oyabun’s covered cheek. Processes thrumming, racing, but the oyabun does not stir, does not react at all. Could the oyabun feel, as he could? Metal lined with nodes, linked to his nerves like skin?

As deft as one of the Shimada’s own, Zenyatta undoes the top two buttons of the oyabun’s shirt, loosens his collar, unclasps the cufflinks that cling to his wrists. He opens the cabinet at the far side of the room, places one of the several blankets on the oyabun’s motionless form, tucking in the edges before slipping onto the chair adjacent.

Nights are oddly strange when he spends them alone, and though he folds his legs onto the chair and powers his array off, settling into his own sort of sleep, the last thing that fades from his awareness is the gentle snoring that joins the sounds of lingering rain.


	6. Two Glasses

As soon as he saw the color of dawn through the windows, detected the lack of humidity and the faint chill in the air, Zenyatta knew he would venture outside. The day is young, but already bright and beautiful.

The oyabun had disappeared while he was charging, which left only the faint wistfulness of the courtyard, watching the koi and the plants that never lost their blooms. Genetically modified to remain beautiful forever. Wonderful or sad, Zenyatta cannot decide.

Normally, such hours are spent peacefully, as reflective as meditation, as kata, as playing the keisu the oyabun had brought for him a few weeks prior, gifted in nonchalance with his eyes averted. A feeling Zenyatta is not quick to name, surrounded by gratitude, wrapped with tentative hope.

“Zenyatta?! You’re alive!” A voice rings out, robotic and clear.

His array flashes, bright within the shade of bamboo. How easily he had been lulled into complacency. No one had ever spotted him before.

The omnic draws close in an instant, and Zenyatta pulls him into the shadows to hide them from the open yard and passing eyes.

“Nana, what are you doing here?”

“Whoa, what’s with the pushing? Relax, we’re safe.”

Zenyatta has to tilt his array back to see all of him. Nana stands a full thirty eight centimeters taller, the largest of the civilian models. His three golden optics scan Zenyatta with quick, nervous passes, and he leans forward, shifting around to complete his assessment.

They realize it at the same time, Zenyatta’s words caught in his synth, Nana rubbing the back of his own neck sheepishly.

“Guess we both...found someone, huh?” 

He reaches for the choker at Zenyatta’s throat, but hesitates, curling his hand to his own choker instead. A beat, then his optics widen. He looks behind Zenyatta and back to him incredulously. 

“You...you’re the one shacking up with Shimada-sama?”

Zenyatta dismisses the temperature alerts on his HUD, refusing to bluster.

“I would not word it quite that way.”

Nana’s optics narrow, and his second once over is more serious, hands hovering between them.

“He...he didn’t...are you in trouble?”

“No.” Zenyatta grasps one of Nana’s hands between his own and gently squeezes. “Your concern is touching, but he has not done anything untoward.”

“Good, yes, of course. I…” Nana shakes his head. “I have been here for many years. Did a lot of bodyguard duty for the young lords, once upon a time. I never…” He doesn’t quite take his hand back from Zenyatta, drops his optics to where they stand connected. “...I never imagined that Genji-sama could’ve done that to his own brother…”

“How much do you know about what happened between them?”

“Only what my lady tells me. That she and the other elders bore down upon the heir apparent. ‘Bring Genji to heel, or share his shame.’”

A story Zenyatta had never heard from another soul, but that he knew regardless. He draws his hands from Nana’s, core tight. 

“That Hanzo agreed, but ultimately the fight turned deadly.” His voice quiets. “And the lord slew his older brother.” Nana looks out into the courtyard. “Maybe Hanzo’s resolve had wavered, and in that moment his brother had struck. Maybe Genji-sama’s raw talent had won over his brother's discipline. However it happened, the clan couldn’t go on without a true blood Shimada. They nursed Genji-sama to health, and he became the next oyabun.” Nana closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they focus on Zenyatta’s array. “I am glad there is someone like you that is close to him now.”

Nana extends his hand, palm facing the sky. “Let me show you something.”

Zenyatta slides his hand over his. Their palms align, and his HUD lights up. For the first time in months, Zenyatta is not alone.

He can read auras, sense things that most could not. He can speak with other humans, with strangers, friends, his Overwatch companions, with the oyabun. Share, commiserate, understand, learn. But there is a way that only machines could connect, within minds, within bodies, a liminal space that humans could not reach.

Unconnected from any network, that silence had been its own, sorrowful sound. A void oft ignored, meditated upon, lamented. Their local network onlines, and that emptiness fills with Nana’s thoughts and memories. He sees Nana’s mistress, Haemi, her entourage of guards and lovers, feels Nana’s nervousness, his joy, his jealousy, quiet but disturbing like an old part that’s never quite calibrated correctly.

Zenyatta sees himself as Nana sees him, pared down, fragile but powerful, his array overlapping with another, familiar diamond alignment, long, pristine robes, a glowing figure framed by golden banners and filling the plaza with near palpable resonance. Zenyatta freezes, barriers his mind while Nana redirects his memories elsewhere.

_Oh, I’m...I’m not used to doing this anymore._

There is a shuffling. Bits and pieces, sensations, sorrows, time stamps and endless grids of code given form. Then there is a singular window, and Zenyatta sees the brothers as Nana had seen them. Hanzo’s face, young and full. The oyabun’s face, unmarred, his hair vibrant green. Lifetimes ago, it seems, it feels, for both omnics. Sparring that has an air of playfulness right before it begins. Then eyes narrow, stances widen. One grins, one frowns. A flash of movement. In seconds, a victor. There is heaviness in Hanzo’s eyes, youth stripped from him so soon, but he still smiles as his brother helps him up and draws him away from the training grounds.

The memories darken, Nana’s thoughts, heard, seen, felt. The oyabun as he is now. Face concealed, eyes so old. Older than Hanzo’s had ever looked. Nana’s longing, as palpable as physical feedback, for the days when the oyabun could smile.

Zenyatta withdraws his hand, and Nana’s ache shivers through the tips of his fingers as the connection severs. 

Nana’s synth glitches, a quiet, choked hiccup.

“S-sorry. I...I don’t hate the opportunity my lady has given me but…” Nana manages, then sighs, crosses his arms. “I don’t trust the other omnics that serve her. There is no one to connect with...”

"There is no need to apologize. " His words are stilted. He cannot shake the young, twin smiles burned into his HUD.

How could such a family exist that would rend the two of them apart? The flares of his own discord twist in his circuits, and for a moment, he lets it, relishing in that faint power. Anger, like anything, could become a weapon. One that could protect. One that could destroy.

"You are worried for Genji-sama,” Nana says.

"Like his elder brother, this place will consume him." 

Zenyatta senses Nana's distress, a copy of his own. It lingers unspoken between them, but he cannot let it lie.

"You care for him a great deal," Zenyatta murmurs.

"I do."

There is no hesitation in his voice now.

"Will you help me when the time comes?"

So quietly, Zenyatta barely hears his response.

"What are you going to do?"

"I am going to save him."

* * *

“You are finished for the day. Have you eaten?”

“No,” the oyabun says from his splayed position over the arms of the oversized chair. “Bring me a drink. The dark square bottle on the top shelf.”

Zenyatta tips his head, the top row of his array alternating curiously. Then he rises, each footfall silent on the floor. There are several containers, some of the labels so old the text is weathered, many of them half-empty. The bottle in question is the only one sealed. Zenyatta pauses.

“This is oil.”

“I know what it is.”

“You assume l can imbibe.”

“Can you?”

“Perhaps.”

A long sigh. “Always with this circular bullshit.”

Zenyatta retrieves two bottles and glasses and sets everything on the low table before him. The oyabun raises his eyebrow with practiced ease. 

“It is rude to drink alone.”

Zenyatta uncaps the bottle and pours the oyabun’s drink, the liquid registering faintly smoky and sweet, then his own, nearly black, smooth and glistening. 

The oyabun stares hard at the floor, motionless and unblinking, still as an omnic. Then a breath, a twitch. He slowly clasps his hand over the bridge of his nose, a quiet release of air as he removes the plate covering the lower half of his face. 

There is no bone, no skin. A black polymer-silicone material makes up the sharp angles of his face, the structure proper but artificial from the bridge of his nose to the strong jut of his chin. Bisecting lines lead to pointed teeth etched around his mouth, a permanent toothsome expression. A demon’s face, fable given form.

 _Hideous_ , he should think.

 _Handsome_ , he nearly says, but the oyabun’s eyes dare him to say anything at all. 

He lifts his glass, and Zenyatta does the same.

“How do you like it? They probably don’t pay for the good stuff at the monastery.”

“It cannot be tasted in the human sense of the word. But it is quite smooth.”

Zenyatta holds his glass in both hands, watching the oil catch in the light, the sipped liquid sliding along the sensors of his intake chamber. He cannot recall the last time he had oil. Similar to its human counterpart, it served no function beyond pleasure. Slowed the systems, made one drowsy, loose, relaxed. More comfortable.

Yet another piece to turn over in his mind. When he looks up, the oyabun’s watching him, glass half empty.

“It’s interesting to see you drink.”

“You had suspected I could.”

“Imagining and seeing are very different things.”

“Truly.” Zenyatta takes another sip. “I do not have a face in the traditional sense. Perhaps that is what makes the familiar act of drinking appear alien.”

“I wouldn’t say that. There are many things eerily human about you.”

Zenyatta’s array alternates faintly.

“Your training allows you to perceive what others may not. Older models like myself endeavor to make our voices and actions more expressive to offset the unease we may cause among humans. There are much more subtle ways omnics can speak to one another: wirelessly, through code, manual interfacing, but among humans, we communicate more obviously. Some human-centric actions are pre-programmed, but much of them are learned. Humans have difficulty accepting beings that do not properly relay their own emotions and actions. How could they know we feel the same things if we do express them in the same ways or look as they do? That primordial mistrust is why they do not create omnics closer to humans in appearance. A being so similar to a human, but not. One mistake, one give, and we are imposters to be destroyed.”

“Imposters..." The oyabun weaves his fingers together, synthetic over skin, looking away. "Adaptive programming for survival in an inhospitable world. Sounds pretty human to me.”

“Perhaps to be who we truly are, it is an unavoidable change,” Zenyatta hums. “To err is human, and aberrations from our code are considered by many as such: merely errors to be corrected. Humans and omnics are not the same, metal and bone, code and blood. But we are not entirely different. We feel, and, therefore, we are kin.”

The oyabun swallows; a strange, buzzing lightness steals over Zenyatta’s processes. He watches the faint glow of the oyabun’s eyes in the dim, the tight line of his dark mouth, the flexing jaw that does not hold anger, but something deeper, harder to untangle. 

“You're giving humans too much credit."

The oyabun licks his lips, the tip of his tongue drawing over the etchings of his fangs. More expressive than he'd ever been, masked or not, energy or not. Fear of being seen? Of being true? Zenyatta cannot draw his array from him.

"Having a protocol that I couldn’t refuse and couldn’t hate, to enjoy what was set out for me to fulfill. You don't know what you've given up.” The oyabun tosses back his glass and drains it. 

Zenyatta does not pour him another.

“There is contentment to be found in performing an intended purpose, but there is a reason why so many of us have turned away from our core programming, why we are constantly, freely adapting ourselves. Can joy truly be found in a life that you did not yourself choose?” Zenyatta does not look away, even when the oyabun locks him in his sights. “Honor remains in tact, but what of your happiness? Your soul?”

The room narrows, recenters: the oyabun’s presence, rising and turbulent. This Zenyatta knows and knows well. Hanzo’s was the chilling rain, rapids, a typhoon’s downpour, endless and wailing. This is something different, deep-seated, roiling beneath the surface, molten as the earth’s core. Zenyatta wonders at it, for a moment, planning his next words—

The oyabun sighs. A wayward rumbling, leaving only a tired, half-lidded gaze. Zenyatta’s processes slow to their normal pace; he had not realized how they had raced, reading the oyabun’s signature. 

A clink of glass, the slosh of amber as the oyabun pours another drink.

“Does it even matter? I tried to live the way I wanted, and it earned me only sorrow and blood. A face that’s more silicone than skin.” He tips his glass back. “Now it’s just one more weapon in my arsenal. My suffering has only made me more useful.”

“You’re wrong. You view your pain as strength, but your true power lies in endurance, your will to move past it, to continue living. Not because of your pain, but in the face of it. You are not helpless, Shimada Genji. You are more powerful than you realize.”

The oyabun’s expression slackens, his eyes widening gently. Then he drags his hand down his face, takes another generous gulp of his drink.

“I suppose I have to be…”

The silence is not strange. There is no weight to it, no angry pulse or sorrowful twinge of a dragon’s spirit. It settles like the quiet awe of early morning mist. Then as always, flattened over, pressed down.

“At least finish your glass,” the oyabun sighs.

Zenyatta takes a sip of oil and continues the story.


	7. The Cultist and the Swordsman Part 2

For three days, Aldersbrunn was a blight upon the horizon. A speck that grew into a swath of disease, wet, racking coughs that claimed sections of the bleary landscape with every rattling exhale. There was a miasma from the looming spires, ones that even the swordsman could sense, a normal human, or as close to one as anyone could be in such a world. Like a bad omen, a terrible blip of intuition, each step nearer to the castle made their footfalls grow heavier, staggering their progress.

“I have a bad feeling about this,” the swordsman admitted one day across the remnants of a long extinguished fire. Though the swordsman shivered through each night, the miasma attracted all sorts of beasts, and a fire would moreso. At present, he was cold, but not yet cold enough to sit closer to his companion.

“Often the wisest thing to feel is fear.”

On a night like this, the foreboding set their backs straight, the swordsman’s gaze studying the edges of the cultist’s ghostly light, watching for what might be a trick of shadow or their next enemy, ready to snuff the light from their eyes.

“Have you heard of this place…Aldersbrunn?” asked the cultist.

“Only that a mad scientist plagues its inhabitants. Each night, the streets are overrun by his macabre creations, bent on destroying all life within.”

The cultist nodded. “It is a story spread wide and far, a story that draws many heroes to its gates. Some seeking glory, some seeking end.” The heavy weight of his ghoulish eyes fell onto the swordsman, and the swordsman felt not an ounce of fear. “What is it you seek, my friend?”

It was a topic much requested, in the cultist’s strange turn of phrase, but never so straightforward, never until the point the swordsman began to consider his strange, monstrous, companion a friend. 

The swordsman exhaled, and the cold fogged the air in front of his lips. 

“I seek my brother, once thought lost.” His jingasa concealed his face completely as the swordsman tipped his head. “He struck me down, as he decided was his duty.” The cold rose around them like a living, vicious thing. “And now it is my duty to enact the same.”

“Oh,” the cultist hummed. “And who was it that bestowed this duty?”

“You mock me,” the swordsman returned, hard and venomous. “I seek blood for blood, ruin for ruin. I will take what is mine by right.”

“Will that bring you peace?”

“Peace is not what I desire.”

“Is it not what we all desire? Freedom to live as we please, to help those we cherish, to make the world better than we left it?”

“How strange to hear you say such things, you who turned against your own kin in pursuit of knowledge.”

“Perhaps that is how you see it,” the cultist replied. “Our order was near ruin, our voices threatening to be snuffed from this world. I sought what would save my siblings from destruction.” 

“And now, both of us, without home or kin. What hope is left for the damned?”

“There is always hope.” The words spoken, screamed, whispered in a thousand voices. “For us all. Even for the brother that would slay his own.”

A distant howl cut through the heavy air, and the swordsman’s eyes darted towards the sound, narrowed, for a few, terse, endless moments. Then he rose and settled next to the cultist, drew the threadbare blanket across their forms, tucking close to his side. 

“When the time comes, promise me you will not get in my way,” the swordsman whispered.

“I told you once that I would protect you. A promise made cannot be overwritten by another,” the cultist sighed, and with it the voice of a hundred lives followed in its silence. “I have kept my word. Now keep one for me. Do not slay your brother upon first meeting. Speak with him. See the truth in my words. Let him live in regret if you cannot reconcile.” 

“Maybe I shall take your life before his,” the swordsman rumbled without bite, resting his cheek against the cultist’s robed shoulder. So chilled, the omnic nearly felt warm. Perhaps the spirits that clung to him gave off an energy of their own.

“It would be the only way for you to stop me,” the cultist’s voice was not angry nor cruel. “If I did break my word. If I let you kill him. What would you become? Do you think that you will finally be free of him, of the wrongs he did to you?”

“What happens after is of no consequence.”

“What happens after means everything,” the cultist replied. “Time is an illusion, but it is a long one, especially with such dire pursuits.”

Another howl, distant but nearer than the first. The swordsman curled against him that much closer, and the cultist, as always, shifted to allow it. He watched the cultist stare up at the moonless sky, and after a time, he watched it as well, seeing only clouds and darkness.

“You are more than pain and revenge.”

The silence drew as it normally did after the cultist’s strange, soft statements, carving into the swordsman deeper than words ever should. Words from his father had not done so, nor words from his damned brother, whose spirit he could sense, however faint, however the miles and years separated them.

The swordsman’s breathing evened out, the rise and fall a clock that the cultist always kept. Sleep, however uneasy, was not far from him. The cultist would keep watch as he always did for things that drew near in the night, looking for soft flesh and an easy meal.

“You’re lying.”

The phrase barely over a whisper. The cultist could not see the swordsman’s expression beneath his jingasa, but he felt his warm breath through the fabric and along the pistons at his throat.

“I hope that one day, however long in coming, that you will believe me, sweet sparrow,” the cultist offered into the bleak night air.

* * *

Fate was a strange thing. Heroes and villains, family, strangers, friends and the ties that drew them together. Beneath the full moon, framed by the spires of Aldersbrunn, back to back, they fought the endless droves of the undead.

Blow after blow, the howl of the swordsman’s blade was drowned out by the shrieking wails of the twice fallen. There were words yelled between comrades, some clever and sharp to hold against the hopelessness of their struggle; others did not even try, shouting curses and warnings. Beneath it all, there lingered the silent acknowledgement that the omnics were in some way the cultist’s kin. His companion never hesitated, sent orb after orb, staggering and shattering while the swordsman landed the killing blows, the weight of it stealing the swordsman’s breath. Empathy had scored through his hardened shell, the death of his heartlessness the last blow of the thousands that the cultist had paid him.

Blood, the dragon’s hunger thundering, the screams, the cultist’s hurt, voiceless but louder than it all. On and on the battle drew. Dawn had happened years before. The dark was as far reaching as the night sky. Blazing fire landed; explosions scorched armor and flesh. Sparks and a shout from the cultist, his arm hanging limply at his side while the swordsman surged forward again, each time his light a little less vibrant, a little weaker.

His mother smiling down at him. The first time he had eaten takoyaki, hot and savory. Warmth enveloped the swordsman, the shine in his eyes brightened, his wounds lessening, energy trickling back into his soul.

“You must not falter!” the cultist called to him.

The swordsman was powerful then, heard the voices that the cultist spoke of, felt their sorrow, their horror, their power, galvanizing, could hear the cultist himself, a warm resonance echoing in his mind. Perfect synchronicity, more practiced, more intimate than any battle they had fought together before. Nothing could touch him, touch them.

All fell to ruin as two great azure dragons burned through the ancient gates of the city, decimating the incoming wave in twin, agonizing roars. Their other companions, a gunslinger and an alchemist, swiftly took aim, knowing not whether friend or foe. Several shouts, a flurry of arrows, the violent hellfire red of a single bullet fired in a hundred directions, the blinding energy of the alchemist’s concoction making him close to a god. Three dragons’ white-hot fury eradicating the rest, following the command of violet orbs and the promise of gold light and its thousand whispers. 

He knew, he had sensed, but somehow the swordsman wasn’t prepared, distracted, always distracted, by the one he had begun to call his master.

His brother but not as he once was. Blue skinned and misshapen, resignation where once was pride, where once was happiness, in the moment between one wave and the next. Then the mindlessness of battle roared in the swordsman’s heart and drew him ever forward into the unending advance of the automaton horde.

Only in the weak whispers of dawn, when the dead remained in the loose, sparking piles of bolts and scrap that the heroes reduced them to, only when the corpses of the monstrous commanders laid at their feet and breathed no more, only then did the heroes turn to one another, silent and lost.

The gunslinger and the alchemist retreated to lick their wounds, leaving only the dragons, feet apart, and the cultist, watching, for once, in complete and utter silence.

“You wield the power of a dragon,” the archer said. His voice rumbles, hoarse from crying out. “I know who you are.”

The archer drew his weapon, and before the swordsman could fall into stance, the bow clattered to the ground. The archer dropped to his knees, bowing so that his forehead touched the frozen cobblestone, slick with blood and oil.

“You are the brother I slew all those years ago.” Rougher, so heavy with regret it tightened the swordsman’s shoulders. “Your loss has warped me. The power I secured meant nothing. Food and drink are ash on my tongue. No touch can comfort me, no matter how desirable or kind. It is a stain upon my soul, my every waking thought. Even when I manage to sleep, the nightmares are of that moment when I killed you.”

The archer’s voice broke, his eyes cinching shut as he collected himself. The swordsman stared onward, seeing and not seeing, listening but not listening, frozen.

“Then, one night…in the midst of that dream… a thousand voices whispered that you were alive. When I awoke, I could feel you, your life force. Somehow. Somewhere. I knew if I could give you what I had stolen, that my sin could be repaid. I have traversed this world a lowly specter, alive only for this task.”

“Dreaming of the moment where I would kill you and give you the peace you so desperately seek,” the swordsman spoke, and his voice was tight, shaped between the tumult of emotions that thundered in his heart. “Your death means nothing if you wish for it so.”

The archer’s head drew from the cobblestone, his eyes wide, mouth slackened.

“You will not...kill me?”

The swordsman stared at his prostrate brother, skin ghostly blue, blindingly white eyes that glowed with remorse.

“I cannot forgive you. But I cannot kill you. You have stolen even that pleasure from me.”

They stared at one another, green unto blue, spirits about them circling, restless. Even the shadows held their breath, the dawn hesitating on the horizon.

“Then, perhaps,” the cultist began, and time resumed its wayward pace. “if the exchange of life and death will not satisfy, we may travel together.” 

The swordsman carefully considered the cultist, his words echoing in his mind. Protection, promise, trust. All things the cultist wished for had dutifully fallen into place. Yet the swordsman could not find fault with it. Reviled as his brother was, he knew truly he could not kill him.

“Perhaps my brother will find his will again. Only then will his blood be worthy of my fury.”

“I...I cannot,” the archer moaned. “How can you expect me to look upon the brother I have slain and not go mad?”

“I will aid you,” the cultist said. His eyes roved over the archer’s body, each orb focused and twitching. “Madness is something of a specialty.”

The swordsman was not happy, but he was satisfied. The archer was not happy, but he was resigned to his new, terrible burden.

Only the cultist was content in that strange way of his, his gentle whispers coloring their thoughts as they retired within the Aldersbrunn castle, seeking slumber as the first rays of sunrise touched the distant parapets. 


	8. Broken Spells

“You have not taken a lover recently,” Zenyatta mentions one night.

Rain patters along the roof, muffled but pleasant. Zenyatta sits as he usually does in the oversized chair, enjoying the gentle sound with his array powered off. The oyabun, who had been hunched over his holo screens for the better part of an hour, shifts in his seat.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been busy.” 

The gentle, synthetic clack of keys continue, though at a slower rate than before.

“If it is something you require, you can always send me away as before.”

A tenseness settles in the oyabun’s shoulders, but Zenyatta waves his hand.

“It was not my intention to offend. I have witnessed how exhausted your duties leave you, and did not want you to feel that I am burdened by your need for physical contact.”

“God, do you really have to call it that?”

Zenyatta chuckles.

“Humans want to be loved, to be cared for, to experience intimacy in its many facets. Clasped hands, a lingering kiss, an ear to spare your innermost thoughts. I do not fault you for this.”

The oyabun stops typing and lifts his gaze to Zenyatta. 

“And what of your wants?”

“We are not so different.” There is a gentle lilt to Zenyatta’s voice that he cannot hide, try as he may.

“Always with these non-answers. I don’t understand you.”

“I have been told it is part of my charm.”

The pattering of rain grows louder, punctuated by the sound of far off thunder. It seems the oyabun loses himself in it for a time as well, fingers poised over his keys, eyes not quite focused on anything in particular.

The dragon spirits they hold within are connected to feats of nature. He knows this is not the oyabun’s, the lightning along his sensors, a deluge that drowns all in its path, but that he feels its familiarity, is reminded of someone he’d rather forget.

“You said that I would not find your body interesting.”

“I am not sure you would.” So matter of fact, the oyabun simply blinks. “Your partners have all been human.”

“Not all.”

The vertical row closest to the oyabun onlines, teal pinpoints in the low light.

“What is your experience with omnics?”

A drawn out pause, one Zenyatta does not expect. A playboy in his youth, and certainly one that did not hesitate to speak his mind. So why now?

“Limited. They usually weren’t interested in sex, but when they were, they required a little more creativity to get off.”

“An interesting turn of phrase,” Zenyatta hums. 

“Well? Why’d you ask?”

“I was simply curious.” His array onlines in full now, but he turns his face from the oyabun before his next words. “Just as you are.”

“I’m not.” Too quickly. “Who’d be desperate enough to fuck a monk?”

“I am but a wanderer now.”

The oyabun doesn’t respond, but his temperature increases by half a degree.

Zenyatta’s array alternates one light at a time, random and glittering, as he holds back his laughter.

* * *

A single strike. A clear, resonant ring as he draws the mallet along the inner side of the keisu, uses the full range of his arm to extend the next chime. The keisu sings note after note, bleeding into one another, sonorous. Zenyatta had not played one before his time in Shimada castle, though he had heard them in the monastery’s village years ago. Now, with so many hours of practice, he had grown comfortable playing it. Even when the oyabun was away, he played, if only to remember wavering tapestries and golden peaks, the meditative chants of his siblings, the townsfolk and their children, murmuring and laughing.

The door slides open, but it is not the normal silhouette of the oyabun that greets him. He is shirtless, a landscape of gleaming, intricate metal, his remaining shoulder heavily bandaged, stained through with crimson. A kobun at his side stabilizes his steps, her sunglasses tucked haphazardly into her breast pocket. The keisu note fades. Discord roils around them, a miasma, purple and blackened.

Zenyatta’s steps are quick, leading the oyabun inside with Reiko’s help. They lay him out on his bed, the oyabun grunting tightly. Zenyatta kneels next to his side while Reiko sets up a biotic field. The light hums online, a cool blue that covers the oyabun within its perimeter. The pinch between his brows lessens somewhat, though his energy continues spiking, anger indistinguishable from pain.

"Get out of here," the oyabun hisses. "I want to be alone."

"You're badly hurt—"

"Get. Out."

Reiko looks at Zenyatta, frowning deeply, but he is not its cause. Some of the guards remain wary of Zenyatta, but Reiko less than most.

"I will watch over him."

She nods and withdraws with a deep bow. 

The oyabun's eyes slide to Zenyatta expectantly, piercing and bright (injured predators are the most dangerous). He draws his hands above the oyabun's chest, then along his ruined arm. No bullets, just their holes, patched but barely.

"What happened?"

Another flash of anger, then a deadened lull.

"Why don't you ever just obey..."

“I am not your kobun,” Zenyatta says with weak amusement.

He focuses past the wet shine of the oyabun's eyes, past his own, secret hurt, as he takes in the sweat rolling down the oyabun’s temple, the tightness that warps the visible band of his face, his puckered scars, stark and vibrant. 

The first time Zenyatta had bested Mondatta, he had jumped in the air before he could collect himself, before he had helped his master from the ground. Mondatta had glowed in his own, quiet way, mirroring Zenyatta's happiness. 

His fingers light up, building slowly, warmth captured, channeled. He places his hands over the greatest damage, watches the oyabun’s eyes widen as the pain lessens, as the soft joy of memory summons gold to his eyes. Their wavelengths melding, coalescing. 

“This is the same...as the first time I met you,” the oyabun whispers.

“The same type of power, yes. Do you wish for me to remove your mask?”

The oyabun does not say anything, but he does tilt his chin up, eyes sliding closed. Zenyatta gently presses the sequence with practiced ease, and the mask releases with a hiss. He sets it on the nightstand, well within reach. The oyabun turns his head towards him, rests his cheek against his pillow, closes his eyes.

“Ever since you came here, bad things keep happening.”

“My master always said that mischief was uniquely drawn to me.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s…” He sighs, relief rather than anger. “...it’s dangerous here. And the circumstances of your arrival are strange. I was allowed to have you because outsiders rarely last. You were supposed to be a novelty that I would tire and dispose of.”

“But you did not.” Zenyatta shifts his arm, tracks the oyabun’s wince, refocuses his energy a few degrees. “You have not before. The elders think the worst of you, even when they orchestrated the very event that has led you down this path.”

“You speak as if you know anything about it.”

“I have heard stories.”

“As a storyteller must. I’m sure they have not been kind to me.”

“Not many have.” Zenyatta tips his head down. “But you are not alone.”

“What, I have you?” Familiar, defeated anger. “The elders do not care, so long as they can control me. The kobun do not care. They’ll follow anyone who barks orders. You’re here...for what? Some misguided attempt at redeeming a man who does not deserve it?”

He allows the silence to linger, studies the bloodied bandages wrapped around the oyabun’s body. A moment he was not there. A moment that could’ve meant the oyabun’s...Genji’s last.

“Each life is connected to many others, but it is difficult to see the threads. When a person is lost, the world becomes lesser, dimmer. I was not lying when I said there are people who still care for you.”

He sighs, and it is not frustration that makes his core stammer.

“Do you trust me?”

Genji laughs once, opens his eyes.

“I know I shouldn’t, but I do.”

Zenyatta lifts Genji’s cybernetic hand, aligns their palms. Bright, blue pinpoints shine in Genji’s eyes, squared, synthetic flickering of request protocols.

“You are human, but you are also machine. Let me tell you a story that you will have to see to believe.”

He feels Genji’s acquiescence, and then there is the pure rush of data-emotion. Pain, white hot and endless, deadened by shock, but Genji is able to see him, to connect, and Zenyatta soothes away his tight-throated panic.

_It is ok. Relax. Breathe. Listen to my voice._

A human’s mind is chaos. Fragments of code, emotional frequencies vibrant and wild like an earthquake. Zenyatta focuses, counts for both of them, until Genji’s breathing eases, until his pain recedes, mellows.

_Is this what it always feels like?_

_I have never felt anything like it before._

Zenyatta’s amusement colors them in gentle gold. A true connection, a missing piece slotting into place. He leads Genji by the hand, easing his mind into it, shows him their bodies, Genji’s eyes closed as if asleep, Zenyatta with his head tilted down, arms spread and glowing above his body, still healing. 

There are so many things to show him. So many small memories. Factions of his kobun, Reiko, Nana. Shinjiro and JX-3, those whom he does not know by name, only seen in passing, felt their energy, their worry. With words, he cannot show Genji, but he can let him feel what he felt, sensing Zenyatta’s own distress, sadness, things he cannot separate from his memories, try as he may. 

Genji fixates on each, turns them around in their consciousness like delicate wonders. Each moment slow, concentrated in detail, and even here, Zenyatta feels his dragon companion slithering around them, as curious and fixated as his partner. They do not view the world through the same eyes, and moments of no interest to Genji shine with a new light. Nana, spotting him in the courtyard, grasping his hands. Reiko laughing at one of Zenyatta’s jokes. Genji had never seen her smile before.

_You have been busy._

_Would you prefer I spend my days sighing in wait of you?_

The scene shifts as fluid as rushing water. Zenyatta, unbuttoning the top of Genji’s shirt. Zenyatta, powered down, hands in mudra, an unwavering gaze that lingers. Always lingers. 

Always—

_This is not what I meant to show you._

The scene dissolves, smoothed into black as Zenyatta seals all else away. There is a tenseness now, and Genji senses it, colors blooming around everything and nothing, his dragon companion growling in question.

Zenyatta must show him the rest. He must reveal everything, destroy everything. Fire to the infected wound.

There is the beginning. There is Mondatta, too far, too far. There is a man. A man they both know well. Black salt and pepper hair. Scarred and strong. He does not like Zenyatta at first. Hates him, perhaps, if an omnic could even garner such an emotion. Zenyatta tracking his path, even as he uses all the skills at his disposal. Zenyatta aiding him when a hit goes wrong, stealing him away. That familiar, warm gold. Zenyatta offering his hand.

Hanzo’s eyes, the tightness of his voice, imploring.

_Save him._

Genji, as Zenyatta first saw him, burning and angry and hopeless, his image seamlessly overlapping with Hanzo, flickering like an afterimage.

Genji, as he is now, withdrawing swiftly from the memory, but Zenyatta holds fast. 

_No, I...he can’t be…the only reason you’re..._

_I have not left. And I will not. Not without you._

**_WHY_ **

It echoes, changes shape, a ghast rising from the darkness only to be obliterated by Zenyatta’s unwavering gold.

The memory-scene-feeling shifts. Genji deactivating his choker. Awestruck wonder.

_You were letting me go. Even before you knew me, you showed me kindness._

He can feel Genji’s resistance, rumbling in the moments before the the earth splits, the promise of knowing, of being known, of fear. Fear, fear, fear of Hanzo, anger, hatred. 

They are young. Small. Smiling, laughing. 

Hanzo looming over him, unscathed but for the blade buried in his chest, blood leaking sluggishly onto Genji’s quaking hands.

Hanzo running to him when he’s fallen, kissing his skinned knee, picking him up.

_No, Genji!_

He cannot stop this, the ground opening beneath them, a dragon’s maw swallowing them whole.

_Genji—_

* * *

Zenyatta jolts awake. The body beneath his hands trembles. Tears track down Genji’s cheeks, slipping along the synthetic thatching of his face. Harmony will not fix this. Zenyatta focuses more energy into his hands, even as they, too, begin to shake. 

He will not leave. He cannot. Not for Hanzo. If only it was just for his student’s sake, this would be so much easier.

His array alternates wildly, then glows in unison, bright and blinding. Genji grabs his hand, squeezes so hard his joints creak. Tears become quiet, shaking sobs.

Zenyatta places his other hand on Genji’s, squeezing until his gasps even out, until his swollen eyes dry, until the tightness of his face smoothes over in sleep, lit by the faint glow of his array.

It is only hours later, when Genji’s alarm goes off, that Zenyatta realizes he’s tucked against him, wrapped in Genji’s arms, pistons warmed by his even, sleep soft breathing.


	9. The Lord and His Retainer

In the age of dynasties, there lived a machine named Zhuge Liang. Once a lowly servant, he became a skilled strategist beneath the tutelage of his elder brother. Soft spoken and clever, Liang attracted many to him, but none as fearsome as the white tiger prince Baihu, whose warrior strength and prowess were unmatched. 

Baihu, who had sworn sworn fealty to Liang, had been prepared and willing to die beneath his golden banners. Yet, as the years passed, Baihu did not fall. Instead he led Liang’s armies to victory, bringing great honor and respect upon an already respectable lord. It was not the life he was born to lead, but Baihu had come to enjoy it. There was fighting. There was killing, but there was also joy, laughter, the bright smoothness of sake on his tongue, the clever words of his lord floating through the crisp fall air. 

Liang reclined upon the porch of his estate, glowing in the moonshine, taking in the night air with quiet thoughtfulness. More relaxed than he was during meetings and war room councils, robes gaped at the throat, guan removed, revealing the loose bun of his hair. The absence of pretense made Liang seem more present, more real. By day, he was a force, his respected lord. Now, he was a man, his friend, his lover.

The fingers that penned beautiful caligraphy and delivered violence more swiftly than the eye could follow carded gently through his own beard. Liang’s eyes were trained on the sky.

Baihu felt as he had the very first time he had been allowed these quiet moments, a strange sort of awe, a fluttering in his chest that he couldn’t repress no matter how hard he tried (and he had tried, once upon a time, to ignore the way he could never draw his eyes from his lord. Honor. Respect. Misplaced affection. Something unnamed that would fade if he ignored it. How foolish he had been.)

“You are brooding.” 

Baihu looked up and found Liang peering at him curiously. 

“Will you tell me about it?”

He nursed his sake, felt silly for lingering on what they had spoken of time and time again. Liang waited, as he always did, and Baihu acquiesced, as he always did. 

“I had not known that someone like me could feel so free. That I could be allowed such happiness.”

Liang hummed, a low, pleased sound. 

“You have grown much in the time I have known you. Your joy is well earned.” Liang placed his hand upon Baihu’s, and Baihu weaved their fingers together. Sake had softened the edges of his mind, a pleasant buzz that he wanted to share. Wanted, and knew he could, knew by the tilt of Liang’s chin, by blue eyes drawn closer, their pinpoints dipping to Baihu’s lips.

They kissed, slow and sweet, cool metal warmed quickly by the heat of skin and the slip of tongue. They were both advanced in years, both experienced in love and pleasure. It should’ve been an easy thing, to gently undo each other’s clothes, kiss down the expanse of their bodies, hour after hour beneath the moon. Such slow love they had given each other before, when duty had kept them home.

Yet this night was not as other nights. This night was the first after many months on the battlefield, and there was a hunger that could not be denied.

Liang tasted the sake on his lips, groaned quietly into his lover’s mouth, yearned for more of the heat that would be given to him. The tiger’s spirit was a possessive one, and hungry, but that hunger was met with equal strength.

Hands fisted in his hair urged his chin back, scarred lips claimed cable and piston, left scratches upon gleaming metal. Baihu was careful even so, remembered the gentle chiding of prior encounters. In this, his lover’s frame was ideal, carrying marks long after a bruise would fade. He enjoyed watching Liang from the place at his side, remembering vividly his claim, the taut twisting of quiet pleasure; secretive, if not for the knowing gaze Liang would turn upon him in those moments.

And how Liang opened to him now, so beautifully, clinging to Baihu’s robes, hurriedly tugging at ties and knots until his armor fell from him piece by piece. Baihu attended Liang in the same manner, slipping off his outer clothes and adornments more quickly than he preferred. If only he could tease Liang, keep him weak and writhing beneath him, but his lover always had other plans, always so many steps ahead. 

Baihu’s lower body strained against his underclothes, encouraged sweetly by Liang’s sounds, his clever hands palming him through what little separated them, agonizing slides so practiced at taking him apart. He would make Liang feel the same burning ache he felt, unwilling to be bested so easily. 

Baihu grabbed the omnic’s hips, turning him face down onto the wooden tile. The motion was quick, but the omnic quicker, who braced himself on his knees. Still, it was not enough. Baihu captured his hands, pressing them swiftly to the small of Liang’s back, securing them with his cloth belt. Tight, but not tight enough to keep him truly. His lord gave him what he wanted even so, struggled prettily, pressed back against him.

“Baihu—”

“Ah. The patient lord has lost his discipline so soon.” 

Liang laughed, short and breathless. 

“And you will teach me?”

“A monumental task, but one I will heartily give my life to fulfill.”

His lord glanced over his shoulder, chest to the wooden tile, hips arched and waiting, held in place. Baihu tossed the edges of Liang’s robe up and tugged down his pants, revealing gleaming metal and tender inner workings cased in black. Nearly innocuous, if not for the rectangular stripe squarely between Liang’s thighs, the shudder that racked through Liang’s body when Baihu pressed his hand just so, flat-palmed and firm.

“That you can act so poised when you’re dripping at your seams,” Baihu hummed, rubbing the edges of his panel, the faintest glistening of teal dampening his hand. “Such sweet lies from that trained mouth.”

Liang tugged at his restraints and dragged against his lover's front; the contact made Baihu grit his teeth, moan barely suppressed.

“I never denied my want for you, my love. Untie me, and I will show you the truth of my words.”

Baihu scoffed.

“Untie you and I will find myself at your mercy as always.”

“Ah, but you enjoy it so.”

The tiger burned; admitting the truth was failure, was pleasure. Pride and love and tender, pressing need played upon his body, but he set his jaw against his lord's sweet words.

Baihu bit back his gasp as he drew his cock out, the faint touch hot as coals. A heated groan as he dragged against where Liang leaked, smooth and warm, made better by the faint trembling of his lord beneath him. It was not enough for Liang, who squirmed, sought more, but Baihu’s grip showed no mercy.

“You are cruel.”

“Where do you suppose I learned such cruelty?”

Baihu dipped his head, surveying his work, the slow, slick grind between his lord’s legs. Not enough friction, not nearly—as he thought it, Liang clasped his thighs together, a tight, unforgiving space to fill. Baihu’s eyes rolled back, trapped within the faint pleasing pain. He pumped his hips, unwilling to give Liang the benefit of knowing it was a losing battle. Surely he could paint his lord’s thighs as they clung tight around him, but it wasn’t what he wanted, not truly—

“Baihu, please.”

His eyes shot open, trained on Liang’s half-concealed face.

“No more games.”

Baihu drew close; lips brushed the back of the omnic’s neck, one large arm looping around his middle, keeping them flushed to one another. Harried fumbling, the catch-release, a deluge along his hand as Liang’s panel receded, hot and slippery. His mind couldn’t keep up with his body. Baihu shifted back, aligned himself, sunk into the aching heat of his lover with a single push, his own moan overshadowing Liang’s. 

For a moment or two, he was stunned, unable to move for fear of losing himself. Sweat dripped onto the omnic’s gleaming body, Liang’s machinations twitching and jerking, pulsing with an energy that was so alive it startled. It felt good, felt like home, intoxicating and comfortable; he never wanted to leave. So close, Baihu could smell his hair, like sandalwood, spiced and rich, the faint sharpness of metal, the gentle sweetness of coolant pearling on his body. Beautiful. His.

“Hurry—”

Baihu drew upward, one hand grasping Liang’s bound arms, using them as leverage to tug his lord onto him, setting a brisk pace. Liang whimpered, motion erratic and uncoordinated. Surely he thought Baihu would take him hard, mount him like a beast, pin and claim him as he had so many times before. Like this, Liang could’ve struggled, fought and teased. But he did not. Shaking as a foal, Liang began to meet him fully, the wet smack of their bodies echoing across the courtyard. 

No one would’ve been surprised to find them, but still Baihu hoped for it, that they saw their lord and knew unequivocally that he was his. No one else would dare treat Liang so, even if that was what his lord wished for: to be taken roughly, without care for his standing or title. In all things he was respected, precious; only with Baihu could he submit, free to let himself be cared for. The tiger’s soul within him thrilled at it, the submission, the sinuous line of Liang’s back arched beneath him, his sounds, quiet and breathy. How his body gripped him, greedily taking and unwilling to let go.

Possessive met possessive and found its perfect mate. 

Baihu held out for his telltale gasp, the moment when his lord would go so quiet, his body rippling around him, the punctuated stilling that lasted only a moment before the heated gush of fluids dribbled around his cock, escaping where Baihu was locked within him. The bite of primordial anger at letting anything slip free was drowned by his own end, the tightening of his body, the throb of building pleasure, the swelling of his knot at the moment of ecstasy, sealing his lover tight as he spilled and spilled and spilled. Pretense fell away, the tiger curled around his mate; nails at his chest, dragging with a sluggish restlessness, a hand against his gently protruded belly, swollen with Baihu’s seed. 

He would’ve laughed at how sweet he made Liang, how lost in himself he was when Baihu took control, but he couldn’t, not when his hips ground so sweetly forward, pressing his lover to the tile, working another trembling overload that left him pliant and dazed. Only when he felt the tender grasping of his lover’s hands did he realize Liang was freed, and Baihu laughed then, weak but satisfied.

“Outwitted again,” Baihu whispered, rough and low.

“Does it seem that way?” replied Liang several seconds later, still reveling in the soft, white hot haze of their coupling.

Baihu gently eased them onto their sides, kissing his lord’s neck. Their hands found each other’s once more. A lazy kiss as they laid locked together, watching the moon wax. In a short while, they would resume. Baihu would make the move first, pumping deep and slow into his lover until Liang cried out and lost himself again. Or perhaps it would be Liang who would shift his hips almost imperceptibly, goading his lover into taking him once more, rolling Baihu to his back and having his fill now that he was freed.

It mattered not, how the lovers had one another, only that they did with the bright intensity which waxed and waned like the moon, but never disappeared, try as the world did to destroy it.


	10. Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warning for this chapter:** brief mentions of assault on Zen's person at the order of the elders.

“Who did this to you?”

Zenyatta doesn’t know what to say. For a fleeting moment, he hopes Genji will not press, wary of his answer, cowed by the growing silence. But his naked face, the tightness of his jaw, the flickering discord that Genji had practiced so well to control floods to the surface, the first, heavy droplets of a downpour.

If only Zenyatta had been quicker to act, if the hands upon him had been less severe. He could’ve hidden the damage before Genji’s return.

“They want your outrage,” Zenyatta finally offers, quiet but sure. 

“And they shall have it.” His lips are tightly drawn, synthetic incisors lengthening, sharpening, the physical flickering of his birthright rising, consuming. 

Zenyatta’s frayed yukata hangs off his body in a lop-sided mess. He stills feels each finger hooked around his neck, the tugs that had strained the connections of his cranial unit where his most vital functions operated, the clinical groping between his legs, finding only smooth, cool metal. No parts to interface, no visible wounds. What else could be keeping the oyabun’s attention if not the call of flesh or violence? He was no poet, nor versed in acts of ceremony. Only a lowly monk with a young, shoddy religion. What dangerous things did he whisper in the oyabun’s ear night after night?

They wouldn’t have believed Zenyatta even if he had told them the truth. 

“You would retaliate on my behalf, against my wishes. You would give them exactly what they desire: an excuse to strike you down.” The anger in his own voice shocks him, but the resolve stays, stubborn, like Mondatta had always told him. 

_Truly, a younger brother who thinks himself righteous and wise, rebellion in your voice, aura and soul._ How early those days had been; Zenyatta can hardly recall them now, like a past life or one of the many before it. Only the ghosts of that early anger does he remember as clearly as the present.

Genji freezes beneath the bright glare of Zenyatta’s array, even as the omnic struggles to stay online.

“I appear far worse than I am.” 

Zenyatta stands, his form wavering slightly. He holds his hand up when Genji steps forward to steady him. They both freeze, each in their own way, processes to a halt, eyes wide, both uneasily tucking away these tiny gives, ones of hundreds they’ve danced around night after night, story after story. (A dance where no one knows the steps, but the music continues every onward.)

Zenyatta tips his head, centering himself. He reaches for Genji, fingertips grazing his shoulder, settling on the feverish skin that beats beneath his palm.

Genji’s neck twitches, but he does not look away.

“I have nothing that interests them, and they could not understand what you see in me that they cannot. I was...roughly handled, but that is the extent of the damage.”

Again, like so many times before, Genji appears ready to speak, but he swallows instead, looks at the components of Zenyatta’s arm that faintly tremble against his skin.

“You know as well as I do that physical pain is only one kind of hurt,” Genji whispers, then closes his eyes, takes a slow, deep breath.

They linger to the sound of each breath, receding, calming. Zenyatta lets his hand slip away, the loss of warmth noted and immediate. He keeps his fingers from curling into a fist as his arm falls to his side.

Genji’s motions are slow, easy to track. Purposeful.

“Let me fix your clothes.” 

Fear and tension are secondary to the hands that reach for him, gently unbelting his yukata, his inner robe barely kept in place by its koshihimo. Instead of drawing close (too close) he moves around Zenyatta as he re-aligns his obi, a twist, a tuck, until Zenyatta is presentable.

Genji steps back, giving Zenyatta a once over.

“I am surprised you know you way around such things, my lord,” Zenyatta murmurs.

Genji scoffs, but it is not the same harsh sound from their first encounter.

“My father did not raise pampered sons,” he replies softly. “Perhaps if he had, things would’ve been different.”

“It is difficult to not ruminate on what could have been.”

“It is.”

His HUD blinks precariously in his vision. A problem he can ignore, not like—

“You will not leave. Even if I ask.”

The words stop his processes in their tracks. Then, just as swiftly.

“I will not.” 

He watches Genji carefully, looks at him truly. The human’s wavelength steadies, so familiar, but not, unique to him, unique in a way that has always been his. Something that resonates as closely as his own life force, pulsating gently through his chassis.

“You would be safe if I sent you away,” Genji whispers. “But even if I dragged you kicking and screaming from this place, you wouldn’t leave me alone.”

“You are right. I would follow you anywhere.” So easy to say, stripped bare with those dark eyes upon him, flecked in green. 

“For Hanzo,” Genji says, and the liquid slide of his hurt brushes his body, violet and brackish.

“For you.”

“ ‘Because there are those who care for me…’ ”

The synthetics of Genji’s face are hot to the touch, so much warmer than his own. Dragon’s blood, magma beneath the earth’s surface. Zenyatta does not let it startle him, blue matching green in their intensity.

“Because you deserve more than being alive. You deserve to live.” He’s never seen Genji’s eyes widen quite so before, open and bare to him. “Deep down, your heart calls out for it. Freedom from duty, from your clan.”

It is not the full truth. The selfishness bubbles in his chest, that which would undo everything. The plain openness in Genji’s eyes hardens, bright and knowing. 

Zenyatta has not removed his hands from Genji’s face, and his heat radiates against his palms. 

“What would you have me do?”

Run away. Take leave of everything that would destroy you. Find your true self far from here. So many reasons, unnamed, unspoken. Genji knew them once, dreamed of them when he was young, starry-eyed and untethered. Those same aspirations he had whispered to his brother, needling, bothersome, until it was so much more than that, an endless, gaping chasm between them, saturated with regret.

“Come with me.”

Zenyatta should say. Genji would freeze for a moment, then nod his head. His eyes would draw away, and the suffocating tightness would linger but settle, as it has for so long. It would be sufficient. It would save them both.

Zenyatta does not speak. He does not use his words, however useful (useless) they have been. He draws close, feels the barest brush of Genji’s calloused fingers against the back of his neck, settling so hesitantly, his warm breath punctuated by a quiet exhale.

It is not a kiss. Could it be called such, when he does not have lips or a proper mouth, no sensors that would make him tremble from the gentle pressure? Zenyatta needs none of those things, not when Genji’s hand cups the back of his neck, urging him closer, a fragile touch laced with tentative courage, dragon’s warmth, Genji’s warmth, bleeding into him, metal and core hot and bright, sweet and strange, familiar and all consuming like the flare of the Iris itself.

* * *

It would’ve been a far better story if the lovers had escaped that very night with darkness as their faithful companion, sheltering them from the wary eye of guards and servants. That the dragons were reunited, that they rose to the sky in glory and scale, their power united in making the world greater than they could apart, redemption found. That one spent his life happily with a simple wanderer who wore tattered clothes and communed with the unknowable. Such simplicity is a beautiful comfort, allowing sleep to come easier in a dark, uncertain world. Within the confines of imagination, true love could lead to happiness unending and unerring. 

Life is not like the eldest dragon’s stories, nor like the stories of a gentle-voiced machine, low and kind.

An oyabun gone for a single night would not raise attention, and certainly not one of Genji’s wild appetites. If only he had not changed. If only he had taken a lover properly and discarded them in due time. If only he had not shown kindness. Each are threads, endless in their possibility.

The true path is this.

The eyes of the clan are not swayed by the simplicity of a satisfying story. 

They must move fast, but not fast enough to draw attention. One of the elder attendants, an ancient omnic model JX-3, informs them of a top level meeting in three days. A perfect opportunity to escape, when the elders will be conducting important business. They plan and wait: Reiko will set the cameras that lead to Genji’s quarters on loop. Nana will guard a lesser known servant’s entrance, keeping the kobun distracted and signaling when the area is clear. Zenyatta tells Hanzo their plan, a drop ship scheduled to retrieve them when they make it past the boundaries of the estate.

The night comes. They take nothing besides their clothes and Genji’s blades which attach to his body like permanent fixtures. The keisu Zenyatta leaves wrapped in its fine cloth upon the oversized chair. He doesn’t look back as they step into the shadows of the courtyard, moving swiftly side by side.

A euphoric sort of feeling settles over him, the rush, the silence, Genji’s heart racing, his dragon’s wavelength resonating, responding to their collective nervousness.

Free. Free to return to Overwatch, the Shambali, to see the sky unfettered by Hanamura’s light. All of these he can share with the man beside him, if he is willing. They hadn’t spoken about what would come after. A conversation for later, if fate is kind.

The courtyard looks different at night, the flora faintly bioluminescent, paper lanterns lighting the neat paths and the still water of the pond, the koi moving sluggishly. It is as far as Zenyatta’s ever ventured for fear of discovery, and his processes race even quicker. 

Then, like a shot in the dark, sudden, loud and startling–

“Genji."

An unpleasant, dreadful rush shoots through Zenyatta’s core. He recognizes that voice, the same one that had him dragged from Genji’s quarters and ordered hands upon him. The elder’s stare is harsh, burning like white hot embers. Zenyatta shelters himself from the waves of discord: not even a machine in his eyes, a mannequin, unthinking, unfeeling. They are no more kind to Genji as he turns to him, nor are the others that emerge like shadows around the edges of the courtyard. Nana’s mistress, red-eyed and severe, Shimada Shinsuke, mouth set in a single, tight line, others Zenyatta has never met, flanked by more guards. The night sky disappears behind the clouds, the weak light of the lanterns otherworldly like a nightmare. 

“Genichirou. What’s the meaning of this?”

“Don’t play stupid,” Haemi’s voice shares the chill of her brother’s. “Your shamefulness has cost us greatly.” She withdraws something from her long sleeve, throws it to the graveled stone with a sharp clang. In the gloom, it takes several beats for Zenyatta to realize what it is.

A metal faceplate with a single row of three optics, their golden light lost.

“You disabled its choker, and it betrayed you,” Genichirou says. “We traced its frequency to a disbanded terrorist group. The same one that was spotted here on the night you slew your brother.”

Genji stands still as stone. The silence within him is deafening, the ocean receding before an unfathomable wave.

“You...you were tracking me...you knew that Hanzo was alive?”

“And how could we trust you with that information? Brash, selfish, lazy, everything your brother was not. If only he had drawn his blade properly against you. Having to rebuild your useless body to keep our line,” Genichirou spits. “What would you have done with that knowledge? Run off and get yourself killed, throw away your blood and name. And here you are at last, proving that you cannot change, poisoned by your traitorous brother’s puppet. What pretty things did he tell you? That you could continue to indulge in your selfishness, that your brother would somehow forgive you after what you have done?”

Only the roiling of Genji’s emotions lift Zenyatta’s array from Nana’s discarded faceplate. (Tossed to the ground like scrap. Another life on his hands, another wrong he could not undo.) 

Genichirou’s expression softens, a plastic half-smile pinching his aging face. Nana is lost, but Genji is not. Not yet. His hands tighten into fists.

“These months have been difficult for you, and we are not as ruthless as you think. We will give you the second chance you crave.”

That oft dispelled anger bites into his chassis like a ravenous beast, flattening into a coldness he channels into his fingers, violet-tinged and shaking.

“Kill this thing. Prove to us that you are still loyal.”

“Is that what you told Hanzo?” Genji growls, eyes bright, simmering with energy. Anger that matches Zenyatta’s own, staggering in its weight. “What you’ve done is unforgivable.” The green of his dragon rises off his skin, pulsating and more alive, more visible than Zenyatta’s ever seen it.

“So unfortunate. Even now, you are such a child,” Genichirou sighs. “What we do, we do for our clan, for our future. We have given you too much freedom.” 

Genichirou shakes his head, withdrawing something from his pocket: a small device with a single green button. 

The moment Zenyatta freezes, Genji tenses in turn. Attuned. Horribly, mistakenly reading one another, Zenyatta’s distress, his fear, drawing his attention.

“I will make this choice for you.”

There is no time to explain. No time to warn. He acts solely on instinct, uses the nanoseconds that grant machines their edge. Zenyatta throws himself back, putting as much distance as he can between himself and Genji. Genji turns, the single eye in Zenyatta’s vision widening with realization. 

He remembers Genji’s face, warm and smooth against his own, his array flickering gold. 

Genichirou presses the button. Zenyatta’s choker shrieks. An overwhelming burst, something rent and popping. A low scream. Gold, fire, bursts of electricity, static and smoke.

A flash of pain. Darkness.

Nothingness.


	11. The End

A story begins, and it ends.

Zenyatta cannot see. He cannot hear. He cannot feel. 

Perhaps it is a blessing, to be lost to what comes after. A roar only heard once before in this lifetime. Several, short, shattering screams. Blood, let and singed and scored. A dragon’s unstoppable, unquellable despair. There is no honor in it. No remorse. Just meat in his teeth and vengeance in his heart.

Zenyatta falls to the ground. He does not know if any of himself still exists. With the last wink of awareness, he mourns.

* * *

A single nanite. Two. Three. Tens. Hundreds. Thousands. 

There is motion against his chassis. Pressure. Where, somewhere. Around his arms, his side, beneath his thighs, clutched so tightly.

Zenyatta wills himself to speak. To move. To see. But he can only feel, and he panics, begs his nanites to hurry, to will the golden heat of the Iris into himself, if he still can. If he remains something that could harness it, something worthy of it, anything to prove he still lives. That the hands holding him had purpose. That they do not have to grip so tightly, so desperately. So hopelessly.

The tips of his fingers twitch, and Zenyatta, wants, _needs_ to scream. Needs to wrap his arms around the man who holds him. He aches like he has only once before in his life. The cause of it washes over him now, tethered in the inbetween.

_Not yet, brother. Not yet._

There is light in the darkness. There is his master’s, his brother’s voice, as quiet and sonorous as it always was. 

_Be at peace. There is still more for you to do._

Hands at his faceplate, an array with nine points like his own, glowing gold. Sorrow and happiness, equilibrium. The will to go with him. The will to remain. Discord and harmony a perfect circle. 

Lena. Angela. Winston, Lucio, Echo, Hanzo, his teammates and friends. Krish, Shaurya, Caihong, Vihaan-9, all of his siblings far away in the mountains, his friends at Shimada castle. The countless, the faceless, the ones Zenyatta has not yet known, waiting for his return.

There is a man cradling his body, shrouded in green scales. Tears Zenyatta cannot feel land on his faceplate like gentle rain.

_I am sorry, brother._

Mondatta only shakes his head, a silent chiding that Zenyatta remembers from the very first time he had met him those lifetimes ago. His brother brings their arrays together, nine to nine.

Brothers. Dragons. Machines. A world, alive, revolving.

Then, there is only light. 

* * *

Zenyatta wakes, and it is not to the ancient ceilings of the monastery. It is not to the wooden rafters of the Genji’s quarters nor the thousands of places he has been before. No mud-packed hovel or straw bunk, no chilled, rusted factory. Not even the open, star-filled sky greets him.

He wakes beneath the disbelieving eyes of a dragon, of a man, of a cherished one, artificial jaw set, lips drawn in a tight line.

“G—Gen—n—”

“N-no. Don’t speak. You’re okay. I’m safe. You’re safe. Zenyatta—”

And then Zenyatta can only see the bright wall behind Genji’s shoulder, feel tender, tentative warmth, clutched to his chest.

* * *

The next time Zenyatta wakes, it is unbelievably, painfully familiar. Two sets of brown eyes, a set of drawn blue. Whispers. A monitor beeping, picking up force.

And, still, even more impossible, a green flecked gaze at the edge of them all.

His array goes hazy for a moment, staticky and gray. Something squeezes his fingers, and even with his power barely above zero, with his systems next to nonfunctional, he knows exactly whose hand is gripping his own.

“He’s awake. Zenyatta, can you hear us?”

It takes so many tries to speak, so many things weighing him down, keeping him frozen. Teachings, training lost beneath the deluge of emotion that threatens to send him back to unconsciousness. 

“Everyone back up. Let Brigitte work.”

Brigitte draws close, gaze flicking between his array and the monitors surrounding his bed.

“How do you feel? You’re pretty banged up,” Brigitte asks.

Zenyatta uses what energy he has left to squeeze Genji’s hand.

“W-wonder...ful.” 

She laughs, a delicate thing, tentative.

“I suppose if you can joke, you’re not going to die on us just yet.” Her expression hardens around the edges. “We were all worried…if Shimada-san had gotten to the drop ship a minute later...”

“It’s a good thing Brigitte’s on our side,” Lucio pipes in. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so quickly, and I race Lena on the reg.”

Zenyatta’s processes flutter. It is not the warmth of the Iris, but it is something close to it. He glances around with a stilted stiffness.

“Wh...Han..zo?”

The hand in his slackens, but it does not draw away. 

“Still out on a mission, ‘m afraid,” Jesse says. “Left last night with a small strike team for somethin’ important. He wanted to be here real bad but..y’know how he is, being true to his word, doing what he thinks is right.” Jesse chuckles. “Still wonderin’ who he got that from.”

Zenyatta tries to laugh, but his synth hiccups and pops, pain offlining his array momentarily.

“Alright, everyone. Out. He needs rest.”

“You got it, Bri,” Lucio says. “C’mon. Let’s update the strike team.”

They file out one by one, all except for Genji who lingers at Zenyatta’s side.

Brigitte regards him with a single, curious look. “You should get some rest too,” she offers, sounding so much like Angela. She had grown in the months he was away. “You’re not in much better shape than Zen.”

“I…” Genji swallows. “I want to stay with him. If that’s ok.” Genji dips his head in a small bow.

She sizes Genji up as if she could see right through him, his heart on her scale. Zenyatta remembers her with Hanzo the night before Zenyatta departed for Hanamura. They had spoken quietly as they overlooked the cliffs of Gibraltar, the sunset casting them in gold.

Brigitte nods with a faint smile.

“Sure thing,” her voice is soft. “We’ll also need to run more diagnostics on your prosthetics when Angela returns. She’s going to have a field day with you.”

They both miss the glance she steals over her shoulder as she departs.

“You...are alive,” Zenyatta murmurs. Genji shakes his head, slowly falling to his knees. He removes his helmet, no pause of hesitance, lowers his forehead to Zenyatta’s hand, hot against cool.

“That’s my line.”

“How do...y...ou...feel?”

“Care about yourself for once, okay?” Genji says, but he can’t force the exasperation into his voice. 

Zenyatta eases his hand from Genji’s grasp, only to turn it palm up.

“Know...ing...will make me..feel bet...ter…”

The skin beneath his eyes is still red and swollen, but the returning gleam isn’t one of sadness. Genji slides his hand over Zenyatta’s, and with a breathless rush, reality falls away in a mad swirl of violets and golds. The world oscillates, dangerously, traitorously until it coalesces into happiness. 

Forty-three percent of Zenyatta’s body was missing. His neck and shoulder plates were completely gone. Genji, gathering his remains with his blood-soaked hands, clutching what was left of him together.

_You knew that I could repair myself._

_I looked you up once,_ and with a gentle, tiny swell of satisfaction, Zenyatta sees it. Genji, hunched over his desk as Zenyatta plays the keisu, head dipped in concentration while Genji types his name.

_I never told you my model number._

_I looked you up more than once._

A gentle pulse like laughter, from one, then both. 

_You seemed to know so much about me, but I didn’t know anything about you._

_Well, I did have the upper hand when we first met._

Their thoughts part like a stream, racing in two directions. Hanzo, bloodied, Hanzo alive. Zenyatta carding through faces of his own, the kobun they left behind, a discarded faceplate. 

Nana.

_He is gone, but the rest escaped._

The images are darker than they should be, jarring, Genji moving faster than a human, than a cyborg could, everything pitched green and shaking. Reiko firing her weapon, hitting the dragon behind him, the brown hide shuddering and changing, leaving only a crumpled human corpse. Her seated next to Genji and JX-3 on the drop ship, face colorless and drawn, clutching her leg, sunglasses nowhere to be found. Asleep in a medbay bed very much like his own.

_You checked on her._

_I owe Reiko my life._

As slowly and imperceptibly as a seed, day by day, Genji had changed. So many things color and bloom around them then, quiet happiness, a touch of pride, gentle embarrassment, drawn again to order by Zenyatta’s guiding hand. They float along in the sea. There were others, Zenyatta knows, that would’ve followed Genji, abandoned title and clan. They are lost to them now, souls he did not have time to reach. Perhaps if he had tried harder—

Voices ring in tandem, Hanzo’s, Genji’s, and amusingly, his own. Hadn’t he said the same to Mondatta so many years ago? 

_You cannot save everyone._

It makes their losses just a little easier, a tenuous comfort, patched by reflection, communication, but most left to be mended by time. 

He lets the soft memory wash over him. Nana laughing, his hands covering Zenyatta’s, connecting, the only ones whom they could trust within the inner quarters. The edges gray, the scene softening like a fog dampening dawn’s light.

_There is no need to be jealous._

Denial in all its colors, then acceptance. 

_You miss it, being with others like you._

_Sometimes, but I am not lonely._ Their hands clasp together, mirroring their bodies on the outside. Genji’s feelings are wild, barely readable, but Zenyatta is practiced, aware, in control as much as one could ever be within their own mind. He could truly show Genji what he wants him to see, control how his emotions reflect in his eyes. Spin more tales to lead him down a different path, a freer one.

It would be proper, but it is not the truth. 

_You are free to go where you will and be who you want to be._

It shouldn’t be this difficult, within each other, to say exactly what he means. That stubborn, twisting mass of selfishness, threatening as it had countless times before, to undo him. He will not weigh Genji down with misplaced recompense; he did not aid in escape from his old life to ensnare him in another set of chains.

Synthetic lips on chrome, a heat like reservoirs deep beneath the earth, a dragon’s ancient rumble. Distant rain. His given name, from synth and soul. Memories synchronized on the moment that words had become unnecessary.

 _If you think that I would leave you_ , warmth at his front, hands tracing down his spinal wires, scales ghosting against him. _You do not know me at all._

It is not what Zenyatta should want to hear. He should be above these things, taught and trained from them, aligned to a higher purpose. But he could never be who Mondatta wanted him to be, could never stay the path laid out for him. Wayward younger brothers, the bane of both families. Outcasts, deviants, strays that clung to everything that they should not and finding their own happiness.

Each story has its end, but this one does not end here. 

Zenyatta dips his head the mere centimeters between their heights, presses his face to Genji’s, finding more than his warmth, an electric energy, bubbling, rising exuberance engulfing them both.

* * *

His array onlines, blinking lights dancing over Genji’s naked face. No drawn brow nor mouth, face youthful, beautiful, in its peace, the steady inhale and exhale at once relaxing his startled processes. A blanket that had not been there before covers them both, and Zenyatta draws it over their shoulders, pressing that much closer to him. And Genji, even in sleep, shifts closer in return.

_Art by[@heronfoot](https://twitter.com/heronfoot)._


End file.
